


will you hold me when the curtains close

by Avery_Kedavra



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Blood and Injury, Caring Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Hero Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kissing, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Major Character Injury, Panic, Sleep Deprivation, Sleepy Cuddles, Swearing, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Talks of Death, Villain Logic | Logan Sanders, a bit of fighting and arguing but it's partly joking and it gets resolved, also i maayyy have made a whole au of backstory for this story so, but he's definitely messed up for a bit, but they're both sympathetic!, i don't think? the violence counts as graphic?, maybe you'll see a bit of that eventually, roman's also pretty woozy for a lot of it and i don't know how to tag that, so yeah that's the kinda quality you should expect here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28504236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery_Kedavra/pseuds/Avery_Kedavra
Summary: When Roman gets hurt in a fight, he tries to ignore it. He's a hero, after all! He can't give up so easily.His nemesis, Logan, disagrees.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders
Comments: 36
Kudos: 212





	will you hold me when the curtains close

**Author's Note:**

> Good morning! I actually finished this bad boy last night, but I was too exhausted to do more than post it on Tumblr. In the @sanderssides-secretsanta I was paired with the wonderful @mallowmocha, which was a treat, since they’re also a mutual of mine! Hi, Mal, I wrote you an entirely-too-long piece of logince, I hope you like it! And happy new year, since I was very late with this gift, apologies!
> 
> (Title is from In My Arms by Illenium. I’m on Tumblr at @averykedavra)

Roman had almost died seventeen times.

He kept a tally, at first in his head and eventually on paper, at first out of habit and eventually just to keep things organized. Some of them were small--a fight gone wrong, a punch missed, a failed rescue mission. Some of them left him stumbling into his bedroom at three in the morning, blood dripping onto the floor, knowing he would miss another day of college as he patched himself up for the next patrol.

For each, he wrote the date and incident in his notebook, and beneath it whatever he’d done wrong.

That was the only way to learn. It was the only way to look at his mistakes and find a way to keep going. He’d never been much good at anything except fighting. He couldn’t fail at that, too.

Roman had almost died seventeen times, and every time, he figured out a way to keep going.

This, though? Well, it was definitely pushing the limits.

It shouldn’t have been hard. Just a fight outside of town, some villain wreaking havoc on the bay bridge, a quick warm-up spar to kick the night off. The dude had telekinesis, which could get nasty, but Roman had practice.

Turned out there were two of them.

Turned out the asphalt was slippery from the day’s rain, and Roman was tired from his endless physics homework, and the lights along the road dazzled his eyes.

And turned out that a body of water was good for his powers--but no good for the rest of him.

He barely had time to raise his hands before impact.

Ice broke around him.

Bubbles burst.

All he remembered was the cold.

He’d washed up half a mile downriver. A public beach, closed off for pollution--which said bad things about the water he’d just been in, but Roman couldn’t manage to care. All he needed to do was to breathe. Breathe without it hurting. Stand up instead of lying, crumpled, three feet from the water.

He dragged himself a few more inches up on the sand. He coughed. Something ugly and painful was lodged between his ribs, making every breath raspy. Roman coughed again to see if that would dislodge it. Nothing happened but a slice of pain, enough for him to grab at his chest and bite back a whimper.

Okay. Bad. Very bad.

It was hard to think. It was even harder to see. The world was blurry and dark, lights reflected in the river. Those dudes were probably still on the bridge, he should--

Roman clawed himself, bit by bit, to a sitting position. Tears sprung to his eyes. He struggled to catch his breath.

He was cold. So cold. His suit stuck to his skin. Water dripped from his hair into his eyes. Bits of ice sloughed off his knees, filled with bubbles. He pulled the ice from his skin. It was a jerky movement, and he lost control a second later, letting the ice fall to the sand and slip back into the water.

Okay. Okay, okay. Okay. He could do this.

What was wrong right now?

Roman’s arms came up to wrap around himself. He squeezed his eyes shut.

He was cold. He was the kind of shuddering cold that probably meant something bad--so cold that his skin felt like stone and his bones crackled. His hands shook. He pressed them closer to his chest and could barely feel them. His gloves clung to his skin and freezing drops of water skidded down his face.

One problem, then.

What else?

Roman focused on the pain in his chest. He cracked his eyes open and blinked against the dizziness. When he looked down at himself, he saw dark water and dark ice and something dark that definitely wasn’t water.

Shit.

Roman let a hand fall onto his chest. His fingers came away bloody. They must have--that sword slash must have gone deeper than he thought, and now that he realized, he swore he could feel the wound itself, pressed against his suit and burning through his chest.

Great. Fantastic, in fact.

Two problems.

Roman took a deep breath and looked around at the beach. It was deserted. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. Cars roared down the street, and skyscrapers tumbled into the sky, and lights fell into the water and left burning traces in the darkness.

Roman was far from his dorm. And his roommate wasn’t usually observant, but he’d definitely notice if Roman left blood on the floor.

Roman reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone without any real plan. He had to shake it for it to work. The clock read 10:30. Barely the beginning of the night.

A reminder popped up on the screen. _Kick discount Zuko’s ass_. _10:45._

Roman groaned. He wasn’t in any shape to kick discount Zuko’s ass. He probably couldn’t even stand up if he tried.

Well, only one way to find out.

Roman planted his hands on the ground, letting his phone fall on the sand. He gritted his teeth at the irritated pull of his wound, shifted forward, and levered himself to his feet.

It _hurt_. Glass and ice and nails in his chest, making him gasp, sending him staggering. He pressed a hand to the wound and felt hot blood drip between his fingers. His stomach turned.

Okay. Okay, Roman, you’ve been through worse. Take a deep breath.

“Come on,” he whispered to himself, voice shaky. “Come on. Grab your phone. Come on.”

Carefully, so carefully, he reached down. His phone slipped through his fingers. When he finally managed to grab it, he realized he’d left blood on the screen.

He should call someone. A doctor. A friend--none of his friends knew, of course, but he could pretend--what? Say he just _happened_ to fall into the river, in a superhero costume, and survived through sheer luck instead of summoned ice?

What would he _say?_

The reminder blinked up at him. Specs wouldn’t get up to _too_ much, right? He never did much more than property damage and being a jerk--although if Roman wasn’t there to stop him--

Roman couldn’t take the risk.

He turned around slowly and watched the city thrum in front of him. He’d call it beautiful, if he wanted to be poetic--or dizzy and nauseating, if he wanted to be honest, since his eyes could barely focus. He supposed neither really mattered. It was simply his city. Filled to the brim with people, with cars careening down roads, with twisting dark alleys and sloped roof-tops. He probably knew it better than anyone. He had fought on, in, and for every inch of it. And when he looked at it, the spiraling lights and dark clouds, he wished he could see more than a battlefield.

At a current count, there was a five-to-one ratio of villains to heroes. They lost heroes every year--nay, every half-year, every few months.

Many of them got tired. Many of them changed sides. Many of them joined a fight and never left it.

Roman had avoided the last, could never bear to do the second--and he’d fought through the first. He couldn’t get tired. He couldn’t give in. If he had to be the one who kept going, the one who fought as much as five people, he’d do it.

If he had to figure out a way to fight while bleeding and shivering, sure, why not?

Roman planted his feet firmly. The cold, he could deal with. He was good with cold. In fact, it was already dissipating, or perhaps he was just getting used to it. He waved a hand over himself, froze the remaining water on his skin, and pried it off with a snap of his fingers. Shards of ice fell to the sand around him. He shivered one more time before straightening his shoulders.

Okay. One problem solved. But the other one--hmm.

Roman wasn’t stupid enough to completely ignore the whole injury situation. That’d got him in bad places before. Maybe he could grab his first aid and do a quick patch-up? But he was already running late, and he’d have to make it across town--

He pulled some bandages out of his pocket. They were soaked through and wilted in his hand. Shit. There went that plan.

Roman took a deep, shuddering breath.

Okay. Okay, he could do this. It was just one night--he could have the usual spar with the nerd, patrol after that, and maybe if things were _really_ bad, stop a bit earlier and go home. Specs didn’t usually go that hard. He was probably the nicest of anyone who regularly tried to kill Roman.

Eh, not kill. He kind of went for general maliciousness and being irritating. His fire did sting, though--although tonight, Roman wouldn’t mind getting a little bit warmer. He could ask the nerd to strategically warm him. That idea was enough to make him snicker.

“Hey, Specs, go easy on me,” he said, laughing. “I got thrown into a river, maybe tone down the fireballs--and, like, give me some extra seconds to think of witty retorts or something.”

Roman laughed again. The laugh turned into a cough and he doubled over, holding a hand to his mouth. Was that--blood on his hand? Okay, Roman wasn’t very good at medical stuff, but that seemed like a big issue.

He swayed slightly on the beach. Maybe he could--skip patrol tonight. The idea made his stomach churn, or maybe that was the nausea.

Maybe he could turn in early. He could actually get really hurt, and if he ended up out of commission for a while, that’d mean an increase in crime and way more stuff to clean up later and the possibility of succumbing to inertia and never getting back onto the streets--

But he couldn’t just--

Roman squeezed his eyes as tight as he could. Lights flashed behind the lids and he struggled to breathe. In and out. Stay standing. He’d been through worse--which wasn’t entirely true, as he’d never been thrown off a bridge before, and that probably could cause all _sorts_ of internal injuries. The sort that could land Roman in real danger.

The sort that he couldn’t take the time to fix, since hospitals meant explaining how he’d got them, and he had a whole night of patrol ahead.

If he skipped out, who _knew_ what would happen?

Roman lifted his head and opened his eyes. The city spun around him a few times before settling into the same old skyline. He took an experimental step forward, and didn’t collapse! Fabulous.

Roman took another step. Still good.

His phone vibrated in his hand, and he glanced down and squinted at the screen. _Kick discount Zuko’s ass. 10:45._

It was already 10:40.

Roman let out a long breath as slowly as he could, so it didn’t catch in his chest. He slipped his phone into his pocket, adjusted his gloves and mask, and pulled at the wet ends of his hair. He probably looked a mess, but it was night, nobody’d look twice. The only person who would get a good look at him was Specs, and everyone knew nerds were blind as bats, even with glasses.

A wind swept across the beach. Roman rubbed at his arms until the goosebumps faded.

He had work to do.

Slowly, Roman inched his way off the beach. He stumbled when he hit concrete, grabbing the ‘No Trespassing’ sign to steady himself. The parking lot was empty. Sand had managed to work its way into his socks and under his shirt, somehow, and Roman scratched vaguely at it. It refused to dislodge. Rude.

But nothing seemed to be terribly wrong. Roman managed to inch his way across the whole parking lot, and when he started walking, it was easier to keep going. He wasn’t entirely sure whether he could _stop_ , but that was a problem for later!

Roman pressed a hand to the wound. The blood seemed to have slowed. If he kept his activity to a minimum and didn’t tear anything, maybe it would heal on its own!

Great plan. He was about to enter a fight, but still, great plan.

Didn’t fire cauterize wounds anyway? Roman could, like, get very close and--

Now _that_ was not a great plan. Roman shook his head slightly to try and dislodge the bittery, jittery, and not-very-glittery clouds inside his brain. Everything seemed skewed a bit to the left, and the lights of the city left traces skidding across the sky. When Roman reached the sidewalk, he held out a hand and skimmed the bricks, just to feel less marooned.

One night.

Maybe not even one night--maybe just one fight. Specs was the only one Roman felt he _needed_ to see. Yeah, he’d have to track down those goons on the bridge, and do some patrol, but Calculator Watch was the only one who had a reminder in his phone.

Specs was the only _regular_ villain Roman ever fought. He _knew_ the guy, in a very we-kick-the-shit-out-of-each-other way. The nerd was a huge dork about science, liked memorizing names and dates, and called Roman ‘Princey’ like everyone else, despite saying he didn’t like nicknames. He didn’t laugh much, but when he did, it was a small snicker he quickly hid. He pretended to hate banter, but always joined every time Roman started it. He thought quickly. He was good in enclosed spaces. He was quick on the draw, and he always seemed to know when Roman was there.

And yeah, there were other villains Roman knew. Supernova. Nightmare. Wisp, although he wasn’t exactly a _villain_. It was often a rotating cast, with new villains popping up and old ones retreating. Roman bantered with them too. They called him Princey, or Ice Prince if they were especially keen on reminding Roman of the stupid name he chose at age fifteen. Some of them kicked his ass. Some of them got their ass kicked.

There was no reason Fahrenheit should have been special.

There was no reason Roman should have been hurrying down the sidewalk, as if late to an important appointment. The nerd wouldn’t even _care_ if Roman wasn’t there. Some other hero would pick up the slack--and the more Roman rushed, the more his chest clenched in all the wrong ways--and why was he _doing_ this--

Maybe he wanted to do one more thing before he turned in. Maybe the fight would spur him back into action and he’d be fine. Maybe he didn’t want to give up before doing _anything_.

That wasn’t what heroes did.

Roman paused at an intersection. Nobody gave him a second glance, but he ducked into the shadow of an awning just to make sure. The white of the crosswalk paint gleamed on the concrete, and neon signs flashed in the windows. Roman _really_ wished it wasn’t so bright. Every flash of headlights as cars roared past sent sparks in front of his eyes. Water still dripped off his costume onto the pavement.

Where even _was_ he? Downtown or uptown?

A car’s wheels squealed on the pavement, and Roman winced. He blinked the lights out of his eyes and pulled out his phone to try and find a map. His fingers shook.

10:52. He was already late. Wonderful. Maybe he should shoot Specs a text.

Roman laughed a bit, and regretted it when his chest spasmed.

It took him three tries to open the Maps app. The call button hovered tantalizingly in his line of sight. Except he didn’t have anyone to _call_ \--the hospital would ask questions, his friends would ask questions, his roommate was probably passed out watching Riverdale, his brother didn’t answer his phone--

Roman squinted at the map. The red pin stabbed an area near the river, which made sense. It wound a yarn route to the usual building, and the route did _not_ make sense, because it wound around too many corners. Or maybe Roman was just shaking the phone too much. He looked up and realized he didn’t know what direction he was supposed to go in. Was that the road? Or was that the road?

Usually, he’d ice some steps to a nearby roof. Him and Specs always ended up on the same building, and it was pretty easy to see from there--a boxy, ugly behemoth that apparently had desk workers of some importance, since it always got repaired quickly after fights. Roman didn’t even remember why they’d started meeting there in the first place--had the nerd tried to rob the place? It’d been months ago, and Roman’s thoughts were jumbled. He felt like he was shaking a box, and everything kept colliding with the sides and falling into a heap.

Roman extended a hand and experimentally flexed his fingers. Ice coated the tips, and he had to check and make sure he’d kept it to just the tips, because cold shot through the rest of him. Cold river. Right. Maybe he hadn’t warmed up as much as he thought.

He closed his hand and wiped the ice on his side. His fingers were still cold.

So. Okay. Roman couldn’t go up to get a peek around, which meant stumbling through the roads to the building--and somehow _climbing_ the building. He hadn’t thought of that part. Roman found it unlikely that he could even climb _stairs_.

Still, he’d never know unless he tried, right?

Roman blinked at the instructions, stared at the street signs until they coalesced into something resembling words, and decided he couldn’t get _too_ lost. He slipped his phone back into his pocket, leaving a smear of blood on his hand, and walked in the probably general direction of the building.

The cars rushed around him. It was already getting late, but the night was still fizzing with excitement, and Roman was bumped by crowds running to bars and parties. A tipsy person with a silvery dress elbowed him in the stomach and teetered away with an apologetic giggle. Roman looked down and saw a bit of blood splatter to the ground. Maybe he should get out of the crowds. Maybe he should--

Roman shivered again.

He kept walking.

The roads bent around him and he somehow ended up in a place that wasn’t where he started. Funny. He’d definitely been walking, but he hadn’t really expected to _get_ anywhere. It didn’t feel like he had moved. It felt like the world had moved instead.

And it hadn’t _stopped_ moving. Lights bled into each other. Red dripped into blue and faded to black. People laughed and talked, shoving Roman further down the sidewalk and towards the road, and cars roared and spat at the pavement. Faces blurred. He thought he felt blood, or maybe it was melting ice, or maybe it was the lights playing off his skin--

Deep breath. In and out. Out and in. In and in? He didn’t know which he was doing, but air was working its way through and he hadn’t collapsed yet, so he had to be doing _something_ right.

He must have walked faster. The night moved around him. The crowds parted. It was all slipping past like water, cold water pulling him deeper, and he didn’t remember how to _breathe--_

Lights.

A roar.

Roman threw himself backward instinctively, and his hands hit the pavement with a jarring flash of pain.

A car careened past him.

Deep breath. In, out, whatever made his heart stop hammering and his hands stop shaking. Blood--ice--water dripped down his chest. Just water. Nothing but water and pavement and the car speeding away, and he’d almost walked across a _road--_

Roman closed his eyes for a second. That barely made the lights fade.

He’d just almost gotten hit by a car.

Okay.

Okay, _maybe_ he wasn’t in the best shape.

He couldn’t _quit_ , though--he wasn’t going to just sit on this sidewalk forever--

Roman experimentally tried to stand up.

Nope. No. Fuck no. That _hurt_. And he was pretty sure he’d fall into the road again. Sitting on the sidewalk forever didn’t seem so bad, actually.

Roman cracked one eye open. The world spun a bit more. He’d probably punch a wall if he tried to fight someone.

But he couldn’t just leave Specs hanging, right? They had a _commitment_. The nerd could get worried! Or--or do bad stuff. Roman needed to be there. That was the _rules_. What would happen if Roman wasn’t there to say hi? Nothing good.

Maybe if Roman explained the situation, he’d understand? Even villains could be nice. And Specs was pretty nice. They could do the fighting part later! Like...tomorrow! Or the day after tomorrow.

Yeah. Take a rain check on the fighting, and find his way home.

Roman pulled himself to a standing position, hummed one of the songs from Tangled, and tried to focus on anything but the searing pain in his chest. His legs felt thick and clumsy. He was surprised he hadn’t fallen down yet.

Which direction did he go, again?

Forward. Probably. Maybe.

Well, forward meant no more crowds. Good enough! Roman slipped into an alley and splashed through puddles of something. A skittering sound alerted him to a rat. Roman tried to wave, but his head spun and he pressed his hand to his chest. Without the lights of the main streets, his eyes hurt less, but the shadows were staticky and freezing. At least he was hidden from--well, he didn’t remember _what_. He was pretty sure he should be hiding from someone. Something? People might see him and--and that was bad. Right?

Roman tried to blink the clouds from his eyes. The streetlights had left spots in his vision, that pulsed in the shadows and made it hard to see straight.

He couldn’t see straight. Ever. He _wasn’t_ straight.

Roman snickered to himself.

Where was he, again?

He looked up and saw the iron-dark sky far above. Walls closed in on either side of him, creating a chasm of brick and twisted fire escapes. Roman shivered again. Without the warmth of the crowd, his fingers were numb.

Okay. Almost there. Which was a complete lie, but he had to tell himself _something_ to keep going.

Almost there. Almost there. Almost--

A flash of fire.

Roman almost squealed in relief. He managed one last burst of speed, rounded a corner, and escaped onto the sidewalk next to a familiar glassy building. Nobody on the roof, the doors were locked, the most recent effects of their scuffles--namely, a long crack in a pane--gleaming in the light of the cars.

And a familiar figure, sprawled on the stone awning above the door. The same costume as always. Dark gloves, mouth covered, glasses--and Roman couldn’t see his eyes from here, but he knew they’d be glinting. He was paging through a book, hair tucked behind one shoulder. Like a _nerd_. A small flame floated next to him. Roman watched him toss the flame from one hand to the other, before sending it spinning around his head like a halo.

Roman stepped forward, and almost collapsed. Fortunately, Specs didn’t look up.

Right. Okay. Just say hi, explain that they needed to take a pause on the fighting, and hope the nerd didn’t try and attack him. Easy.

“Hi,” Roman called, walking as far as he could before leaning nonchalantly on the wall and trying to look like it wasn’t the only thing holding him up. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“You’re--” Specs’ head jerked up. “Finally! Where have you _been?_ I’ve been waiting for a ridiculous amount of time.”

“Really?” Roman blinked. “You didn’t do--crime things?”

“I figured I’d get some studying in.” Specs closed his book and snapped the fire out, slipping off the awning and landing with a practiced roll. “Or perhaps I did do--” He paused. “‘Crime things,’ as you put it. Who knows?”

“You?”

Specs looked confused for a second. “I suppose so, that was--what I was trying to say--you’re more than half an _hour_ late.”

“I am?” Roman laughed sheepishly. “Lost track of time.”

“Hmm.” Another flash of fire, and a miniature bonfire burst onto his palm, twisting between his fingers. “Well, we had better make up for lost time, hadn’t we, Princey?” Roman could never see his mouth, but heard the smirk in his voice. “It would be a shame to let a night go to waste.”

“Right,” Roman said weakly. Now that he was about four feet from his nemesis, the idea of talking Specs down seemed a terrible one. How would he _explain_ it? If he telegraphed his failure, admitted that he had messed up in a fight, that could be an excuse for Specs to finish him off.

No. He had to try to fight back. Even though his chest felt like it was tearing itself in two.

“You’re on,” Roman said, mustering courage he didn’t have. “It would be an honor to put you in your place.”

“You’re so dramatic,” he retorted, as if he wasn’t holding a ball of fire and smirking at Roman with a familiar spark in his eyes. “Besides, this won’t be much of a competition--though, I suppose, I could go for a change of pace.”

He took a step back and reached for the doorknob. It steamed in his grip and dripped onto the sidewalk, leaving molten metal dripping down the glass. With one kick, the doors gave in.

“What are you _doing?”_ Roman asked.

“You’ll find out,” Specs said, an infuriating lilt in his voice. “If you can catch me.”

And he disappeared through the doors.

Roman almost swore. A full-on _chase?_ On any other night, he’d relish the chance to hunt his nemesis down, but he didn’t even think he could walk right now. And who knew what the nerd was up to? It could be _diabolical_.

Well, it was an office building. Diabolical robbery, perhaps. Diabolical property damage. Diabolical distractions--because that was often how it happened. Specs never _did_ anything much. He just enjoyed making Roman _think_ he would.

It made Roman wonder what he _gained_ from villainy, to be honest. A cool outfit? A chance to beat people up? The few thousand dollars Specs had managed to steal?

Roman didn’t get it. But Roman _also_ couldn’t take the risk and assume Specs wouldn’t do anything. Maybe he’d just been waiting for the right opportunity. Maybe tonight would be the night that showed Roman what his nemesis _really_ wanted.

Roman took a deep breath and looked down at his bloody uniform. Specs hadn’t seemed to bat an eye, which was a good sign, but there was still the problem of the wound under it. He poked a hesitant finger at it and almost blacked out for a moment. He’d never had anything that hurt so much--maybe fragments of ice had lodged themselves in the tissue?

Either way, he couldn’t fight with an open wound.

Which meant he needed some sort of way to cover it--

Roman opened his hand and watched frost gather on his fingertips, and a terrible, desperate plan surfaced in his mind. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. When he pressed his hand to his chest, he let the water on his skin crystalize and freeze over.

It was _cold_. It made his breathing even more labored. It was wasting energy.

But it wouldn’t bleed for a while. Hopefully, it’d buy him enough time to win this fight.

Roman let his hand slip from the ice on his costume, pulled a final burst of determination from his reserves, and ran into the building.

At first, he didn’t see anything but shadows. He blinked until his eyes adjusted, and saw an empty receptionists’ office. Three doors, two elevators, and a bunch of floors to choose from.

When in doubt, start at the top.

Roman ran over to the elevator and banged the up button. Were elevators in service after hours? Was that even how elevators worked? There were stairs nearby, which would keep him from being cornered, but he was _not_ in a mood to climb stairs.

The button flashed red under his finger, and the doors shuddered open. Roman tossed himself into the elevator and kicked the ‘door close’ button. Then he picked floor eighteen. The top floor.

The elevator jerked. Roman leaned back on the railing for stability. Red numbers ticked their way up, and a mirrored ceiling flashed with red and yellow lights. Roman made eye contact with his reflection. He looked like shit. Straggly hair, soaked costume, ice clinging to his collar and sleeves, a bloody mess on his chest. Not anything like a hero.

Well, it only mattered if he acted like one.

Roman curled his hands around the railing, kicked at the wooden floor, and watched the numbers tick up. At this rate, Specs could be anywhere he wanted--maybe he’d even exit the building before Roman found him.

That was the smart thing. Fahrenheit was smart.

Fahrenheit also, despite what he said, liked to show off.

Roman would be able to find him. It wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.

The elevator ground to a stop. Before the doors were halfway open, Roman bolted between them and found himself in a meeting room. Polished table, empty whiteboards, abandoned chairs. A beautiful skyline view, although he didn’t have time to enjoy it. A vending machine, and Roman wished he had time to grab a drink.

No sign of anyone.

Okay.

Roman crept around just to make sure he hadn’t hidden anywhere. Nothing, of course. Specs wasn’t great at stealth--or, again, he chose not to be. He’d probably get a lot more done if Roman wasn’t there to stop him.

If Specs didn’t _let_ Roman stop him.

And if Roman didn’t play along.

Roman sighed and threw open the door to the hallway. No use thinking about that again. He did it practically every week--assigned Fahrenheit’s actions more meaning than they had. Put pieces together that weren’t even the same puzzle. Pretended something was up, something was suspicious, and pretended the conclusion was anything but scheming or human error. Pretended Specs was more than just a usual villain.

Pretended _they_ were more than the usual.

Roman’s head was spinning again, and he found it easy enough to stop thinking. Focus on the chase. Focus on the possible floors he could be in--was there anything of value in this building? Not much money, just a lot of computers--

Of course.

Roman checked the directions by the stairs. Computer lab. Ninth floor.

Elevator or stairs? Roman pressed the button again, but before the elevator had opened, decided he needed the element of surprise. He left the elevator wide open and sped towards the stairs. Maybe the cold had frozen the pain a bit, because for a moment, he felt almost like normal.

He took the stairs two, three, four at a time. When he reached the first landing, he swung over the railing and jumped to the next, tucking and rolling and sliding down the bannister. His feet found their placement, like always.

Just another fight. He could do this. This was what Roman was _good_ at, injury or no.

He burst into the computer lab.

“Oh, hello,” said Roman’s nemesis, feet kicked up on a desk as he tapped at a computer. “Good to see you, Princey. How have you been?”

“Cease and desist, villain!” Roman pointed at him with heroic fervor. “Step away from the computer.”

“No thanks.” Specs clicked something, barely looking at Roman. Blue light washed over his face and reflected in his glasses. “Using another computer gets rid of IP address issues, and makes hacking _so_ much easier.”

“What’s your plan?” Roman asked, walking towards him. Several desks lined the room, all computers muted and dull. The lights were all turned off and swayed a bit in the wind. Another glassy window stretched around the lab, the buildings and airplanes pinpricks of light in the darkness. Roman could even see the bridge from here. He wondered if those two nuisances were still on it, or if someone else had come to the rescue.

“My plan?” Fahrenheit paused. “Not sure, actually. I’m working on that bit. At the moment, I’m simply poking around in city files.”

“How dare you!” Roman declared. “Privacy is important! You can’t simply--”

“Privacy.” He snickered. “ _Nobody_ has privacy. Ever do some research on Google, Princey?”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Roman continued, walking closer. If he could keep Specs talking, maybe this could be a clean takeout. “You can’t just do crime because everyone else does it too!”

“Corporations aren’t an ‘everyone else,’” Specs said in a bored tone. “And I haven’t done anything _illegal_. I’m simply gathering information.”

“For what?”

“Purposes.”

“Your vagueness betrays your maliciousness!” Roman sped up. “Get away from the computer.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t damage company property.”

“Get _away_ from it.”

“You’re ridiculously uptight.” The nerd wiggled his fingers, and the smirk was back in his voice again, the smirk that made Roman want to punch him in his stupid smug face. “What harm could I do? Besides, there could be interesting data here--I’ve always wanted to know how much information they have on superheroes--”

Roman’s eyes widened, and automatically, he sent a blast of ice towards his nemesis. Specs instantly ducked, and the freezing blast hit the computer. It gave a plaintive fizzle and blinked to blackness.

“Hey,” Specs complained. “Now _you’re_ damaging company property. That’s a felony.”

“The only felonious one here is you!”

“We’re both trespassing, actually.”

“Well, I’m _allowed_ to trespass.” Roman sent another wave of ice at his nemesis, who raised a hand and melted it away. “I’m a _hero_.”

“You’re an idiot is what you are.” Specs shrugged, spinning in the chair. “If I called the police, I bet they’d arrest both of us. I’m not _that_ evil, though--besides, I have an exam tomorrow.”

“You should be studying for it, then,” Roman said. “Instead of resorting to a life of crime.”

“More of a ‘three hours a day’ of crime, but I take your point.” Specs stood up and walked over to a nearby computer. Roman blasted it, too. “Ugh, will you stop? I’ll have to start all over.”

“You won’t get the chance.” Roman widened his stance. “Come quietly, and no one will be hurt--”

“It’s only you and me, Princey,” the nerd countered. “And I have a feeling only _one_ of us will get hurt.”

One of us is already hurt, Roman didn’t say. Instead, he raised his fist.

Fahrenheit smirked.

A second of silence, save for the thrum of a distant helicopter and the scream of a siren.

Then--as always--all hell broke loose.

Roman jumped towards his nemesis. Specs dodged his fist, rolled behind a desk, and came up with fire in both his hands. Roman weaved around the small fireballs and reached for his hand. Said hand grabbed Roman’s wrist, twisted it, and left Roman barely able to parry a swift kick to the chest.

“Slow,” Specs said, before twisting the wrist further and sending Roman flying towards a desk. Roman stuck out his hands and managed to land on it. “You’re off your game.”

“It’s been three seconds,” Roman said, frost curling on his fingers. “Save your judgment.”

He jumped at Fahrenheit again. Specs ducked, and Roman waved a hand at him as he passed. Icicles sprung from the carpet, freezing on the side of the desk and spreading towards his nemesis.

The nerd sprinted away, jumping from desk to desk, and sending a wave of fire towards Roman. Roman summoned an icy shield and ran through the fire. He could feel the ice on his body start to melt, and quickly froze it again. No use getting bloody in the middle of a fight.

Specs jumped off a desk and onto another, kicking a computer towards Roman. Roman froze it in midair. It fell to the floor with a thunk.

“Property damage!” Roman called.

“You’ve already ruined the carpet, Princey, don’t call the figurative kettle black.”

Specs jumped to another desk, and Roman scrambled onto one of his own. He almost slipped on a pen. It snapped under his boots.

“You don’t need to say _figurative_ all the time,” Roman said, icing the desk and sliding to the next. “I know you’re not literally a kettle.”

“Clarity is important!” The nerd grabbed a pack of pencils, set the tips on fire, and threw them towards Roman. Roman froze them and sent them flying back. Specs dodged, like always.

“You’re a nerd,” Roman said.

“ _You’re_ a prep.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s been established.”

A blast of fire. Roman kicked himself out of the way. Shit, there went his plan of standing and talking forever. No fighting, just non-strenuous banter. Sounded like a good plan.

Of course he didn’t get what he wanted.

Specs ran from a desk and grabbed onto the edge of a light, swinging on it. Roman shot a small blast--too small, but hopefully he wouldn’t notice. Ice crystallized on Fahrenheit’s fingers. He yanked at them before sighing and flipping onto the top of the light. It swung wildly under him. He pried his fingers from the edge, flexed them, and tossed a lazy fireball in Roman’s direction. Roman dodged.

Usually, they’d have gotten to something more dramatic by now. Roman always loved to up the ante. He could even see how it could go--he could swing up onto the nearby lights, chase Specs from surface to surface, and finally get in close quarters. But Roman was covered in ice and weak at the knees. No dramatic moves. Just tossing ice from his standing position and hoping his nemesis didn’t decide to try harder.

The nerd kicked off the light, grabbed another, and swung halfway across the room. With a neat roll, he was standing again, watching Roman carefully. Roman squared his shoulders.

Another wave of fire. Roman summoned another shield, but it was thin and almost melted when the heat hit. His hands were soaked. He froze the water running in rivulets down his palm. Ice gloves! Something of a shield, anyway. A freezing cold one.

When Roman looked up, nobody was there.

Ten bucks that--

Roman whirled just in time to grab the foot aimed at his fist. He yanked it to the side, and Specs did his neat little roll, like he’d meant to fall the entire time.

“Predictable,” Roman said, a smile rising to his face despite himself. Fahrenheit could see _Roman’s_ smile all the time. Roman wondered what he thought of it.

“Coming from you, that really wounds me.” Specs sidestepped a blow and sent a spurt of fire wrapping around Roman’s hand. Roman wrenched his hand away. “But if you’d like to try something new, be my guest.”

Roman stomped on his foot.

“Ow!” he complained, grabbing at it with a wounded expression. “You can’t--”

“Can and did.” Roman snatched said wounded foot and tossed his nemesis to the surface of the desk. And he rebounded, like he always did, with a kick to the face and a neat somersault. Roman swore he could never get a hit that made the nerd hit the ground. He always rolled with the punches.

Then he was running again. Roman chased him, the best he could, swinging from the lower-hanging lights and hoping his feet stayed firm on the desks. Specs kicked off a computer, and--oh, he was headed for the exit? That wouldn’t do.

Roman blasted the door with ice. A weak shot. Still, the doorknob frosted over, and Fahrenheit immediately veered off course.

“You’re not getting out of here,” Roman declared.

“Is that so?”

A white-hot beam of fire erupted from his hands and hit the panes of glass. They began to melt, dripping onto the carpet and hissing with smoke. Were smoke alarms active after hours? Roman definitely hoped not.

As a hole in the window grew larger, Roman sprinted over, biting back a yelp as shards of ice poked at his chest. He tossed ice wildly in the direction of the fire, and the glass hissed and started to slow. But too late. Already, a large hole yawned over the streets. Specs leaned next to it. He looked proud of himself.

“Sure, jump out a window, become a grease spot, wonderful plan.” Roman snickered. “Do you have a helicopter coming to pick you up?”

“Hardly, but I’ll guess you don’t either.” He stepped towards Roman. “You’ve been off your game. I figured I could give you a bit of an extra push.”

“Off a building,” Roman finished. “Harsh.”

“You said it yourself.” Fahrenheit shrugged. “I’m the hero, you’re the villain. This is what we do.”

Roman put up his icy fists. His nemesis returned the stance.

Did Roman really want to go near another long drop? He wasn’t in a mood to fall to his death again. That was a bit too much peril for one night.

But heroes. Villains. It was what they did.

Roman ran forward, aiming for Fahrenheit’s smirk, and fire burst around them.

He couldn’t say exactly what happened. It got like that sometimes during fights--no thinking, just _doing_ , snapping back as quickly as he could. Dodge and weave. Punch and kick. Flip and see the air spin around him before he found a landing. He caught glimpses of that infuriating smirk, of fire so hot it was almost blue, of his own ice coating skin and floor. He saw the dizzying drop behind them, glowing in the light of the city.

“You’re slow tonight,” Specs said, his voice slightly out of breath. “What, tired?”

Roman growled. “You _wish_.”

Punch. Kick. Dodge. Duck. He knew Specs’ fighting style better than his own, he knew where the punches would materialize, he remembered the way he always ducked around Roman’s back to catch him off guard. He knew the telltale burn of fire too close to his skin. He knew the telltale burn on his cheeks when they got especially close. Fighting was--well, they got close sometimes. Face to face, back to back, chest to chest, wrists in each other’s hands. That was just part of the game.

Roman knew it didn’t mean anything. He also knew he couldn’t let it distract him. He knew everything.

Tonight, though, knowing wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough to anticipate a punch if he couldn’t dodge it. It wasn’t enough to recognize the flash of fire if he couldn’t parry it. It wasn’t enough to spot the way Specs lined up for a kick, because the kick hit Roman anyway, square in the chest and shattering much of the ice. Roman’s breath was forced out of him, and he almost doubled over.

Hand on his shoulder. A shove, and he slammed into the glass, inches from the hole. Fahrenheit pressed an arm across Roman’s shoulders and kept a tight grip on Roman’s wrist. Roman tugged at his hand--it was held firm. He waved his other hand, and only a bit of ice escaped. He kicked wildly, but his legs felt like jelly. He could swear the ice was melting, maybe in Specs’ burning grip--

Or maybe it was a different type of liquid.

Because, oh, right. Roman had gotten kicked in the _chest_.

He didn’t need to look down. He could feel the blood starting up again, soaking the rips in his costume, and the pain bubbling up in tandem.

“Hey,” Roman squeaked. “Okay. Why don’t we--talk this out?”

“We do entirely too much talking already, Princey.” Specs huffed. “In fact, I don’t think you know how to shut _up_.”

Roman opened his mouth to protest, and ironically, found he couldn’t get any words out. He swallowed and tried again, hoping he didn’t sound entirely like he was in extreme pain. “I can shut up. In fact, if you step back and don’t throw me off the building, I will be entirely silent. Lips zipped.”

“Tempting--” his nemesis admitted.

“Hey!”

“--but where’s the fun in that?”

His arm pressed Roman further into the glass. Their faces were inches from each other--but Roman could barely even register that. Pain ballooned in his chest. He felt as though the glass behind him was fracturing too, the pieces needling into his skin. The whole building would collapse, and they would fall together, spinning through the lights towards the ocean of pavement.

Had Specs ever fallen like that? Would this be the time he finally hit the ground?

“Are you--” Roman was pretty sure Specs’ voice had dipped into something else, but he could barely hear. Everything was starting to blur. “You don’t look--”

“I--” Roman wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. His voice sounded weird. “I can’t--”

Some of the pressure on his shoulders lessened. Roman tried to step forward, but if he did, he’d lose his balance. He was leaning on the glass and inches from the city and he didn’t want to fall again--

“Princey,” Specs blurted out. His voice had an edge of panic. What was wrong? “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but you’ve been silent for a _ridiculously_ long time and I--”

Roman’s mouth moved apart from his brain. “Can you step back?”

“What?”

“Step back,” Roman said, swatting weakly at his arm. “Please.”

Fahrenheit instantly stepped back. Roman wondered if it was pity or shock or something else, something nefarious, it was probably nefarious--

The pressure released entirely. Roman pulled his hand up. His shoulders slumped.

And he almost crumpled to the ground.

At first, he wasn’t sure what caught him. Then he managed to blink away the haze and look up. Two familiar dark eyes looked back, widened with concern.

“‘S okay,” Roman slurred. “‘M fine--”

“You’re bleeding,” said his enemy in a tone that wasn’t very enemy-like. “How long have you been bleeding--can you stand? _Fuck_ , that’s a lot of blood, I--”

“‘S not your fault,” Roman assured him. “I--”

The arms around him shifted, and Roman practically fell backward, hitting the glass again with a thud. The eyes had narrowed again. And Roman was tired, and in pain, and very okay with taking a quick nap--but even then, he could tell Specs had never looked at him like _that_ before. Eyebrows pulled together, eyes snapping, face cold.

One hand gently held his side. The other, somehow even more gently, lifted his chin and inspected his face. Roman tried very hard not to lean into the touch. A finger brushed over his cheek--and those eyes were still staring at him, like he’d done something wronger than any wrong thing before it, like Roman was a dead butterfly pinned to the wall--

Roman had never called Fahrenheit _scary_. He was determined, but he wasn’t cruel. He was a good fighter, but not a vicious one. He was a villain, but he wasn’t _evil_. He’d always been just to the left of someone Roman could respect. And maybe Roman did respect him, sometimes.

And maybe Roman did _like_ him. Sometimes. Or Roman could, if everything hadn’t been the way it was.

And he was so many things--smart, hilarious, beautiful, irritating, a menace to society--but he was never _scary_.

Roman was never scared of him.

Tonight, though, he might be.

Their eyes met, and Roman was pinned in place, and he had no _idea_ what would happen. He’d fall off. He’d collapse. He’d be defeated, for once and for all--it was bound to happen eventually, who did he think he was fooling--he’d fall, and maybe he could pull Fahrenheit down with him, show him what it was like--

Roman waited. He’d forgotten how to breathe. Maybe he didn’t need to. He’d just wait here, breathless, weightless.

Silence.

And his nemesis stared at Roman like he’d already lost.

“Who did this to you?”

“Wh--”

“I said.” Roman’s head was tilted up further. “Who. Did this to you?”

“I didn’t--” Roman swallowed and tried to look away. Specs pulled his chin back and looked him dead in the eyes. “Just a usual skirmish. Got unlucky. It’s not a--big deal.”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice was quiet, barely restrained, and angrier than Roman had ever heard. “You shouldn’t have come here, you should have gone to a hospital.”

“Well, hindsight is 20-20.” Roman slipped a bit on the glass. “I--give me a sec, I’ll--I’ll be fine, I--”

“Don’t be an idiot, Princey!” The nickname sounded wrong with that frantic tone of voice. “I know it’s your modus operandi, but--and I’m rambling, fuck, how long has it been bleeding--”

“I’ll be okay,” Roman pleaded. “I promise, don’t--”

A long pause. “Don’t what?”

“Give me a sec.” Roman’s voice was quiet even to his own ears. “Give me a second. I know this is, like, your greatest opportunity or whatever, but _please_ give me a second to--”

He slipped again. Forward.

And Fahrenheit caught him.

Easily, in fact, as if he’d done it millions of times before. Roman barely had time to stumble before his legs were swept up and he was curled into a carry. Bridal style, right? Roman snickered, his head lolling against the nerd’s chest. Dork.

“It’s okay, come on.” Roman frowned a bit at the frantic edge to his villain’s voice. “It’s okay, this is okay, you’re going to be okay--fuck, I did _not_ plan for this--”

“It’s okay,” Roman agreed, his voice trailing off. He didn’t have to stand anymore. That was nice. “Jus’ don’t--steal anything, okay?”

“Don’t worry about me.” Softer this time. Still frantic, still angry, but accompanied with a brush of the hand and a small sigh. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”

“You will,” Roman assured him. He didn’t really know what it was. Still. “You’re smart.”

A small huff of a laugh. Roman curled tighter into the warmth, and his eyes flickered shut.

He probably shouldn’t fall asleep. It wasn’t safe.

“No, you are.” Roman hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud. And he hadn’t expected such a quiet response. “Right now, you are.”

Roman hummed. Okay. Okay, that was--okay. He’d fight later. Do all the fighting. He’d be a hero later.

For now…

Roman let out a long breath and slipped into unconsciousness.

It took Roman an embarrassingly large amount of seconds to realize he wasn’t in his room.

He’d cracked his eyes open and noticed his bed had darker covers than usual. He’d stared up at the ceiling, seen glow-in-the-dark stars stuck onto it, and wondered who did that. He checked the clock and saw it was a bit past midnight, and also, the clock wasn’t his clock. He wouldn’t get a clock like that. It was boring and looked like the kind with the loudest, worst alarm. Roman should make sure the alarm was off--he might sleep through his eight am class, but so did literally everyone else on the planet.

Roman reached tiredly for the alarm clock. Something stiff around his chest stopped him from moving. He pulled off some of the blankets and looked down. Bandages?

Could he escape? He tried to tug at them. A dull flash of pain. He tugged again.

“Stop moving,” a familiar voice chided. “I spent half an hour on those. You’ll mess them up.”

Roman whirled around and almost yelped at the less-dull pain that skidded across his skin.

“I just _said_ \--” He pushed himself out of his chair, stretching his arms like he’d been sitting there for a while. “How do you feel?”

Roman stared up at him. Because he’d expected--well, Roman had _collapsed_. He knew that much. And he’d expected a hospital, or some sort of dungeon, and he’d expected to recognize who was there, and he’d expected--he’d expected anything but _this_.

A small apartment. Stars stuck to the ceiling, an open window by the desk, a laptop with several NASA stickers on the back. A takeout container was shoved in the trash. A small lamp lit the whole place in a dim yellow glow. Roman saw stacks of books in the corner, and a few boxes, as if whoever lived here hadn’t finished unpacking. Or hadn’t had the space to fully move in.

And Roman didn’t know who was standing in front of him. Dark eyes, glasses, a cowlick that made it look like they’d been running their hand through their hair, a rumpled blue shirt and a small pencil stuck behind one ear. But they looked at Roman like they knew _him_. Like Roman was a close friend who’d gotten sick and needed help.

“What--” Roman tried to find words. He still felt unreal. Maybe this was a dream and he’d wake up back in his apartment. “Did--”

“Calm down.” Roman _knew_ who was talking. He _knew_ that voice but he still hadn’t--nothing was coming together, nothing matched up, he should be _dead_ and yet-- “Take a deep breath. Er--not _too_ deep, because of your injury, but a reasonably deep one.”

Same cadence. Same know-it-all tone. The same way of pausing between every few words, as if he was carefully considering what to say before he spoke.

“You’re--” Roman stared into his face. “You _are!”_

“My name’s Logan,” said Roman’s literal actual nemesis. As if he’d just remarked on the weather. “Now please, calm down. Ask as many questions as you want. Just stop moving.”

Logan.

It could be a fake name. It could be a fake apartment. But the apartment and the name were both lived-in, soft and worn around the edges, comfortable and small and so achingly _normal_. Logan. A normal name for a normal person.

Roman stared at him. Dark eyes, glasses, a cowlick, a dip in his chin, his hands tapping at his knees in what might be a nervous habit. Too close. Too vulnerable. If Logan summoned fire, he’d get burned, just like anyone else.

Roman had completely forgotten how to breathe.

“I’ll get you some water,” Logan said awkwardly, looking away. That’s when Roman realized he’d been staring. “You’ve been unconscious for an hour or more, it would be good to eat and drink.”

“Okay,” Roman said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Logan nodded and walked over to the small kitchen. Another window looked over a dark street, and Roman could vaguely hear the rumble of cars. He smelled dust, paper, and what could have been lemonade. Logan turned the faucet on with a hiss and began to fill a glass of water.

His hands were steady. He looked for all the world like this was a normal night. Maybe, for him, it was. Maybe he had superheroes stop by all the time. Who knew? Certainly not Roman.

Roman didn’t know anything that he thought he did.

Logan--Fahrenheit? Specs? What did Roman even _call_ him now? He’d called him “Fairest” for a while, until a white-hot burst of fire showed how his nemesis felt about that one.

Logan.

This was Logan. He’d start there.

“Here,” said Logan quietly, handing Roman a glass of water. Roman tried very hard not to drop it. “Do you want some food?”

_It could be poisoned,_ Roman’s mind supplied. That didn’t match up with anything else, but it was still the instinctive thought--he’d been poisoned once, through gas, and he’d almost thrown up on the street. Dangerous and humiliating.

“No thank you,” Roman said. And there came the politeness, instilled in him by his parents. Always be gracious to a host. Always be gracious to a host who could try to kill you.

Roman did a quick glance around for weapons. Nothing apparent, although there could be a knife inside that backpack, or a sword behind the curtain, or--

Logan was watching him. Roman immediately tried to look nonchalant. He probably failed, thanks to the hole in his chest and the way his hands trembled around the water.

“Breathe,” Logan said, quietly. Maybe even softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“What?” Roman blurted out.

“I’m _not_ ,” Logan said again, a touch of irritation in his voice. “Why would I? It wouldn’t be a fair fight.”

“It wouldn’t,” Roman agreed. He tried to summon his usual bravado. “I’d decimate you.”

“Mm.” Logan motioned to the glass of water. “Drink.”

Roman took a sip. He waited a second before swallowing, but the water felt too nice to spit back out, so he decided to take the risk. It tasted great. He hadn’t realized how dry his mouth was.

He waited another second just to see if he’d been poisoned. He felt the same amount of shitty as before. Good sign. Still, he placed the glass of water on a nearby table.

“As I said, ask me whatever questions you have.” Logan sat on the desk chair and leaned back, kicking his legs up on the desk. Roman hated that he instantly recognized the pose. “If your bandages start to hurt or itch, let me know.”

Roman looked down at the bandages. Logan--it must have been Logan, right? He wouldn’t have taken Roman to a hospital--Logan had done a good job with the wrappings. Roman couldn’t have done it better himself. They sat snugly around his abdomen, sprinkled with the lightest stains of blood.

“You--” Roman paused. Logan gave him an encouraging nod. “You gave me these?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Logan said. “You kept flopping around like a fish. I didn’t want to wake you up, so I had to try and gauge if something hurt you too much.”

“Why didn’t you want to wake me up?”

“You would have panicked.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Roman instinctively argued. He did not _panic_. Heroes did not panic. They were simply appropriately wary.

Logan rolled his eyes but didn’t comment. Maybe he was going easy on Roman because Roman was injured.

“Where’d you get these, anyway?” Roman poked at the bandages. They weren’t quite normal bandages, now that he investigated them closely. Something golden ran down the edges and sparked under Roman’s fingers. “Do you just have bandages on hand for occasions like this?”

“Hardly,” Logan said. “I don’t exactly invite heroes over on _normal_ nights.”

That sounded like a jab. Roman huffed. It wasn’t _his_ fault he’d gotten hurt! Other than the fact that it was entirely his fault.

“Those are from a friend of mine,” Logan continued, motioning to the bandages. “Hopefully, they’ll help you recover more quickly.”

“You’ve got a friend with healing powers? Lucky!” Roman laughed. “You’ll need it, you’re _terrible_ at avoiding injuries--”

“Figurative pots and figurative kettles.” Logan almost smiled. “Which one of us almost bled out in some poor idiot’s computer lab?”

“As soon as I’m back on my game, I’ll kick your butt.” Roman held up a fist. “Look at this. It’s going to hit your infuriating face. Then _you’ll_ be the one with magic bandages.”

“I’ll make room on my calendar.”

“Revenge will be mine.”

“I wish you luck.”

“I don’t need luck.” Roman held up his other fist. “I have skill.”

Logan actually did smile this time. And for a second, all this confusing stuff was worth it, because Roman had _never_ seen Logan smile before. Not without his mask. Logan’s top lip pulled over his bottom lip a bit, like he was biting back the grin, and the side of his mouth quirked up in something close to a smirk. He had the same _you’re an idiot_ glint in his eyes, and now Roman could see how they crinkled in unison with his huff of laughter, he could see--

Roman quickly looked away.

He stared at his hands instead, letting them fall back to the blanket. He twisted his fingers around each other. Could he summon ice, if he needed to? Was he ready for a fight? There was blood underneath his fingernails. He was still in his old uniform, and he was sure blood had dried on his face and skin, he was sure he looked like a mess--

There was a piece of glass in his sleeve. Roman pulled it out and set it gently on the table next to him. He almost grabbed for the cup of water again, because his throat was dry again, making it hard to speak.

Any question. Logan said he could ask any question. But Roman had too _many_ , and he couldn’t remember half of them, and for some of them he didn’t want _answers_ \--Logan _said_ he wouldn’t hurt him, and Logan had wasted bandages on him, and Logan was his nemesis and his _enemy_ and could kill Roman right now without an issue--

Roman pulled at the blankets around him. Clean blankets. The whole apartment was clean, save for the dust and mess, implying that Logan did try to keep it neat. That tracked. He was a nerd. And it meant he wouldn’t want to leave a mess, which meant he might not want to fight inside the apartment, since Roman might break something--

Did that mean anything?

Roman leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He was tired of thinking stuff through. He was tired of trying to figure out what was going on--and it had been what, five minutes? Only five minutes. The most confusing five minutes of his entire life. He wished he didn’t have to think of any questions. He wished he didn’t have to pretend Logan wasn’t staring at him. He wished a lot of things.

Having his eyes closed was nice. It put him in danger, of course, and he should never let his guard down around an opponent. But it felt nice. Everything was less overwhelming when he couldn’t see Logan’s face or the outside window or the million contradicting pieces of evidence.

He felt less like an intruder, this way. He could pretend they were on a rooftop. Or meeting in an alleyway. If he pretended hard enough, he could forget Logan’s name altogether, scrub Logan’s smile from his memory.

“Princey?”

Logan didn’t know his name. Logan--Logan didn’t even seem to have seen his face. Roman’s mask was still on. Logan had a chance to learn everything, and he’d--he’d thrown it away.

Roman didn’t like that. The imbalance of power. It wasn’t _right_ that Roman knew Logan’s smile and Logan didn’t know Roman’s name.

And Roman--he’d had years to hone his instincts. He knew a bad situation when he felt it. He knew it wasn’t good to know something he shouldn’t, and it wasn’t good that Logan hadn’t gotten even.

Logan could have done so many things. And he hadn’t. Which meant he wanted something.

Roman didn’t know what.

Roman didn’t want to know.

“Is everything…” Logan’s voice was hesitant. Too soft, too quiet, too _wrong_. Roman would prefer a fight. He’d lose, of course. But he’d rather get it over with. “Is everything alright?”

_Fight me,_ Roman wanted to say.

_Leave,_ Roman wanted to say. _Leave and I’ll leave and we’ll never speak of this again._

_What do you want?_ Roman needed to ask. _What could you possibly want from this?_

_I’m sorry,_ he could say. Or maybe _thank you_. Perhaps _please_.

_Tell me what you’re doing. Don’t make me ask. Tell me, and I’ll know._

“I--” Roman’s voice was raspy. “What happened?”

No answer for a second. Just enough time for Roman to regret everything.

“How much do you remember?” Logan asked.

Ugh, more questions? Roman reluctantly thought back. They’d fought in the building--Specs had wanted something, he’d been hacking the computers--and the glass smashed, and--

And--

And blood. Pleading. Dizzy lights. Cold eyes and a frantic voice and safe-- _right now, you’re safe, it’s okay_ \--

“Shit,” Roman said weakly. “Holy shit.”

“Holy fuck,” Logan agreed.

“ _Shit_ ,” Roman repeated, swallowing a wave of panic. _It’s okay. It’s okay_. “I collapsed on you, didn’t I?”

“You’re heavy to carry,” Logan said. The beleaguered tinge to his words didn’t match his quiet tone. “I practically dragged you back to my apartment--I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You could have left me there,” Roman said, before he could stop himself.

“And get arrested the moment someone investigated the broken window?” Logan scoffed. “They’d probably blame me for your injuries. It was best for us to vacate the scene.”

If Roman opened his eyes, he’d be able to tell if Logan was bluffing. He kept his eyes closed.

“You didn’t wake up,” Logan added, and there it was again. Every moment Logan acted the way he ought to, every moment Roman thought he understood things, the rug was pulled from under him. “You didn’t--I couldn’t investigate your wounds until we were here, I just had to hope I wasn’t aggravating anything--you didn’t wake _up_ for _hours_ \--”

Logan cut himself off. Roman thought he heard a mumbled series of numbers, a breathing pattern. Roman followed them as best he could. Something in his head stopped spinning.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Logan finally said.

And that didn’t measure up at all. Specs always knew what to do. He always had some master plan, some intelligent way of manipulating the situation--he was _smart_ , smarter than Roman, something as small as this shouldn’t throw him--

“You did alright,” Roman said. He didn’t know where the reassurance came from. “You wrapped the bandages well.”

“I took a first aid course over the summer.”

“Nerd.”

“Came in handy, didn’t it?” Logan let out a breath. “Why did you come to the fight?”

“What?” Roman almost opened his eyes out of shock. “What do you--”

“You were injured,” Logan said. “You shouldn’t have tried to fight _anyone_ in your condition, you should have gotten help.”

Roman opened his mouth and closed it again.

“You were reckless,” Logan said. “Absolutely foolhardy. You should have found assistance the moment you were injured--”

“I get injured all the time,” Roman protested. “Sometimes thanks to you.”

“I never do _that!”_ Logan’s voice pitched up. “I never leave you bleeding all over the _ground-_ -”

“It wasn’t that bad!”

“You were _unconscious!”_ Logan almost yelled. “For a moment I thought you were _dead_ , that you were going to _die--_ ”

And Roman understood now, just a bit. Injury was one thing. Death was another. Even the cruelest villains he knew, he wouldn’t have wanted to watch them die. He wouldn’t have wanted to see _Logan_ \--

Yeah. Okay. He understood now, just a bit.

“I’m sorry,” Roman said. “Thank you.”

Logan sounded almost as confused as Roman felt, which gave Roman a petty sense of victory. “For what?”

“For--” Roman waved a hand in Logan’s direction, or what must be his direction. His eyes were still closed. He wasn’t sure he remembered how to open them. “Going out of your way to help me. I appreciate it.”

“It was...no issue.” Logan’s voice was stilted. “I don’t want to be accused of murder, you know.”

“Fair.” Roman swallowed. “Although I think I would have been fine.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“You don’t know that.” Roman tried for his usual brave smile. “I eat internal bleeding for breakfast.”

“ _What?”_

“I--forget it.” The nerd was never good with Roman’s jokes. It was his one character flaw, besides the villainy. “What I’m saying is I’ve been through worse.”

“If so, I’m concerned.” Logan paused before rushing into another sentence. “And what exactly _happened_ , because you only assured me it wasn’t a big deal, that you’d gotten unlucky in a skirmish and that it was _okay_ \--”

“Yeah, that’s what happened!” Roman tried to shrug, but the bandages stopped him. “I was a bit too slow in a fight, that’s all.”

“You were cold.”

“I summon ice, I’m always cold.” Roman tried to laugh, but the bandages stopped him. “It must have stuck around, that’s all.”

“You were _soaked_.”

“Rain,” Roman said, perfectly aware that it hadn’t been raining. “That’s--”

“If you say _that’s all_ one more time, I’ll--” Logan sighed. “You don’t have to tell me. I just want to make sure nothing’s--that you aren’t in any sort of--” Logan sighed again, a frustrated sound, like his brain was having trouble forming sentences as much as Roman’s. “If you have more injuries, I’d like to know, so I can assist. And I want to make sure nobody is--in trouble.”

In _trouble?_

“I don’t have any other injuries,” Roman said slowly. “And it really was just a skirmish, Specs. I promise.”

“You’re sure?”

Logan was _worried_. Roman could tell. Was--did he think he might be in trouble for helping Roman?

“I doubt the villains even remember it happened,” Roman assured him, hoping that was what Logan needed to hear. “It was entirely an isolated incident.”

And it must have been what Logan wanted to hear, because he let out a relieved breath. And for some reason _that_ made Roman almost smile.

“Good,” Logan said. Sounding like it really was good. “I’m glad.”

“Yeah!” Roman’s euphoria at successfully navigating the conversation, despite having zero information on anything, made him almost relax. “Just some villains of the week causing mischief and mayhem. They weren’t even that dangerous, they just caught me off guard and managed a lucky hit. I should have been more careful--bridge fights can easily go south.”

“Bridge fights?” Logan repeated. A moment of silence. Then-- “Did you _fall off a bridge?”_

Roman grimaced. “No?”

“No?”

“Yes.”

“You _fell off_ a--” Logan sounded absolutely shocked. “ _Please_ tell me it was a small bridge.”

Roman winced. “Does, um, the highway one over the river count as small?”

_“What?”_ Logan’s voice pitched up even farther. “You fell into the _river?”_

“I cushioned the fall!”

“You fell into the--” Thankfully, Logan wasn’t yelling anymore. His voice had a strangely numb quality to it. “Does this happen a lot?”

Roman forced a laugh. “I don’t fall into rivers often, if that’s what you mean.”

“Do you get _hurt_ a lot?”

“Uh, obviously?” Roman was glad his eyes were closed. He already felt interrogated, and if he could see Logan’s eyes watching him, he might do something embarrassing. Like panic. Or cry. “I’m a _hero_ , Specs, villains don’t tend to give me _parking_ _tickets_.”

“I know, but--” Logan was quiet for another long moment, almost long enough to make Roman peek at his face. Would he know what Logan was thinking if he did? Probably not. Roman never did. “Do you get _seriously_ hurt often?”

“No,” Roman said, glad he could answer honestly. “Only every few months.”

“That--” Logan sounded hollow again. “That counts as _often_.”

“Does it?”

“What do you _do?”_ Logan’s words rushed together again, another thing that Fahrenheit would never do, rushing words and thoughts like he needed to get them out before they froze in his mouth. “What do you do when you get hurt? Who helps you?”

“I can’t exactly go to the hospital,” Roman pointed out.

“Then what do you do?”

“I--what do _you_ do?”

Roman didn’t expect Logan to answer, but he did. “I don’t get hurt often, since I mainly fight you. I call my friend when I do--the one who made your bandages--and if they’re able, they heal me. They’ve left me bandages for when they’re busy.” He paused, as if debating what else to say. “Sometimes I stop by another friend’s place. Sometimes one of them visits mine. We look after each other.”

“Oh,” Roman said. He didn’t know why that sounded so strange. Of _course_ Logan had a friend group--of _course_ he had people who looked out for him--of _course_ he had a life beyond their fights, just as he had a face under his mask, just as he had a _name_ \--

Why had Roman never thought about that? Why had Roman never realized that Logan was a person, just like him?

Maybe because it was easier to ignore that bit of things.

It was easier to keep his eyes closed.

“I debated calling one of them,” Logan added. “I--decided against it. I wouldn’t want to involve anyone without your consent.”

Roman repeated that sentence in his head, filed it under completely unexplainable, and nodded.

“What do you do?” Logan asked after a moment. “Why did you _fight me_ instead of--”

“Instead of what?” Roman didn’t mean for something bitter to slip out. But it did. “Instead of _what_ , call Alfred and ready the Batmobile?”

Logan didn’t even snap at him in response. “You _have_ to--you have to have some sort of _plan_ for these things--”

And that stung. Maybe Logan didn’t mean it like a condemnation, but Roman heard one, heard Logan asking _why weren’t you smart enough to figure this out?_ Because Roman was stupid enough to get hurt, stupid enough not to have a backup plan, and stupid enough to rely on a random villain to help him out of pity.

“Why did you--”

Roman was done with the _fucking_ questions.

He didn’t even bother to take a deep breath.

“I didn’t _have_ a plan,” Roman snapped. “Not all of us have some master plan for every opportunity, and not all of us have special healer best friends who can clean up our booboos, alright? Some of us have to make the best of it, and you’re gonna be mad at me for what, patching myself up on my own? I’m sorry I ruined the fight. I’m sorry I made things so _hard_ on you. I’m so _incredibly_ sorry that I decided not to walk _across town_ to my dorm while _bleeding_. And I’m _sorry_ that I tried to do my fucking _job_.”

A long, long moment of silence.

“You shouldn’t have gotten hurt,” Logan said, barely above a whisper. “You could have told me, I would have--”

“Yeah, _sure_ , call off the fight, _that’s_ heroic.” Roman didn’t even know where the anger was coming from. “I got hurt. I shouldn’t have, I was stupid, but I _did_ \--and guess what? Nobody else gives a shit. I don’t have a free pass to get myself a little bandaid, I have work to do.” Roman swallowed. “I have an _obligation_ to people. And of course _you_ wouldn’t understand that.”

And the moment Roman stopped talking, he felt like absolute shit.

‘Cause, yeah. Logan was a villain. Logan was his nemesis. Logan probably wanted something from this interaction, although Roman hadn’t pinpointed what it was yet. But Logan _had_ gone out of his way to help, and Logan didn’t deserve to get snapped at.

Also, pissing off the villain with fire powers? Who Roman was basically incapable of fighting at the moment? Bad plan.

Well. When had Roman ever thought something through?

Roman let out a long breath and waited.

He didn’t open his eyes. Maybe Logan would leave. Or attack him--not very chivalrous to attack an unarmed opponent, but Roman never had a weapon, and since when were villains chivalrous? Roman let a bit of ice cover the tips of his fingers. It felt too cold and it took too much work. He was in no condition to fight.

A rustling noise, then footsteps. Logan had stood up. Roman heard him moving around, kicking aside a few papers.

“What are you looking for?” Roman asked.

“I’m finding my jacket,” Logan said. So. Not finding a weapon. That was good.

“Why?” Roman asked after several seconds.

“I have groceries to get.” The noises quieted. “And...I want to give you some time to yourself.”

Roman felt vaguely like he’d done something wrong. “I didn’t mean--”

“No, you’re upset, I understand. It’s completely reasonable.” A rustle of cloth. “You can...if it doesn’t hurt to move, see if you can walk. There’s food in the fridge and the cupboards, help yourself. Take a shower if you’d like. The bandages are waterproof. Steal any of my clothes if you need them, I believe we’re about the same size.”

Roman gaped at him.

“I’ll be away for an hour and a half.” Logan’s footsteps were more audible than they were during a fight. Maybe he didn’t bother hiding them. Maybe he wanted to prove he wasn’t sneaking around. That he was exactly where he said he was. “Not a moment before then. You have all the time you need to rest, eat something, make any calls you need to. And--I’ll leave the door unlocked. When you’re ready, you can leave.”

“ _Leave?”_ Roman repeated.

“I’m not holding you hostage, am I?” Logan’s footsteps retreated. “You can leave. If you’d like, we’ll never speak of this again. Or--” A long pause. “Or if you’d like, you can wait for me to return.”

Roman laughed weakly. “And then we fight?”

“You really think so little of me.” The way Logan said it, it sounded like he was ashamed. “No, Princey, we won’t fight. I’ll check your bandages. We can figure things out from there.”

Roman didn’t know what to say. Logan didn’t seem to expect a response. The door creaked open, and Roman knew Logan was going to leave.

Just-- _leave_. Leave Roman in his apartment, with his computer, with _everything_ \--

“I know your name,” Roman blurted out.

“I know,” Logan said. “And my address, now. My appearance. Several other things, if you explore my apartment.”

“ _So?”_ Roman asked incredulously. “You aren’t going to--”

“What could you possibly do?” Logan asked.

“So many things!”

“Well, what _would_ you possibly do?” Logan sounded irritatingly smug. As if he knew Roman better than Roman knew himself. “You’re a hero, correct? Heroes don’t out their villains. It’s not chivalrous.”

“How dare you,” Roman said. “I would be doing the public a favor!”

“Maybe you would.” Logan’s smugness faded, just for a moment. “But I trust you.”

The door clicked.

And Roman was--alone?

No way.

Roman listened as hard as he could, but he couldn’t hear anything except the rumble of cars.

Logan had just _left_ him here?

Hesitantly, so hesitantly, Roman cracked one eye open.

The lights were still on. The glass of water was still on the table. The door was closed, and next to it, Roman saw Logan’s jacket was missing. Roman checked every shadow, every corner, and every shape. No one was there.

Roman opened his other eye. Nothing jumped at him. Nothing moved in the darkness. Roman was absolutely alone.

What the fuck did he do now?

Roman checked the nearest clock. Almost one in the morning already. Logan had left like two minutes ago, right? So he had an hour and a half until Logan returned, which would be two-thirty. That felt earlier than it should be--had everything really happened in only a few hours?

That was also around when Roman usually ended his patrol. Late, of course--or early?--but it left him a few hours of sleep before class. He could even do a final sweep of downtown and still be there by three--

Roman looked down at the bandages around his chest. Well. First things first, see if he could walk.

He could, he found out after carefully easing his way out of bed. He walked in a small circle and scuffed his feet on the rug. Logan had taken off his shoes, the only article of clothing that he seemed to have touched. Roman found them by the foot of the bed and pulled them on. Then he considered that Logan might not want shoes on in the apartment. He tugged them back off and set them by the door, next to a pair of tennis shoes. Logan apparently had a slightly larger shoe size than Roman, and also owned duck-covered rubber boots. Roman found that strangely endearing.

He took a look around the apartment again, just to make sure there were no booby traps. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Roman hesitantly walked over to the kitchen, keeping a hand on his bandages, and opened the fridge. Several containers of yogurt, a ridiculous quantity of vegetables--aka more than zero, because seriously, who ate _vegetables_ \--and some bread. Roman checked the nearest cupboard. Pretzels! Score.

After pausing to make sure no one would swoop down on him and attack him for eating the pretzels, Roman pulled out the bag and opened it. They were basically tasteless except for the salt, but Roman didn’t mind. He devoured his way through the pretzels as he tried to think of what to do next.

He felt like crap. His hair was greasy, blood had dried all over his costume, and when he summoned ice to cover one of the pretzels, it felt like flexing a muscle that had atrophied.

Roman looked around and saw a door that was probably the bathroom door. Logan _had_ said he was allowed to shower, right?

Roman debated it for a few seconds. Then he tossed the pretzels in the trash and padded across the floor.

There was a unique sort of weirdness to being in someone else’s bathroom. Roman felt like he shouldn’t be here. Logan had given him permission, but still, Roman kept his hands away from the wall as if he wanted to avoid fingerprints. Maybe he could pretend he hadn’t been in the bathroom. Just in case.

Fortunately, the shower was similar to the one in Roman’s dorm. And more private, and generally nicer. Logan was lucky to have an apartment--well, he’d probably stolen the money to buy it, right? Like a villain would. Maybe he’d even paid for college with stolen money.

That made Roman feel oddly sympathetic. He’d never questioned what Specs used the money _for_. He’d just filed it under nefarious purposes and never looked deeper. He’d just--assumed.

Roman had assumed a lot of things.

Logan had several towels. Roman took one from the cabinet, turned on the shower, and peeled off his mask. While he pulled at his gloves, he glanced in the mirror. Just as he thought--he looked like shit. Rings under his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep. Down the bridge of his nose ran a cut he didn’t remember getting, and dried blood sat in the corner of his mouth. He didn’t look like any sort of hero. He looked like a college student who’d been in a brawl--or started one, based off the slightly wild look to his eyes.

Roman didn’t like how hunted he looked. He took a deep breath, but the glimmer of fear didn’t fade.

The shower felt nice, at least. Roman continued to feel weird about using someone else’s soap, but getting the grime out of his hair and off his skin was worth it. He kept the shower quick to avoid wasting Logan’s water bill. When he stepped out and dried himself on the towel, he saw a small amount of blood had covered the floor of the shower. Oops. So much for pretending he hadn’t been in the bathroom.

True to Logan’s word, the bandages had stayed dry. Roman dried his hair and arms, cast an irritated glance at the bloody pile of fabric that used to be his uniform, and then realized he had nothing to change into.

He was able to pull out his usual black t-shirt and jeans from the pile, but they looked absolutely horrid. Roman felt his lip curl at the possibility of wearing them. He settled for his underwear and the jeans, leaving the t-shirt in the sink with the rest.

Outside of the bathroom, he searched for the most innocuous shirt he could find. He didn’t want to go through Logan’s dresser, so he scanned the few piles of clothes on the floor. Finally he found a slightly oversized t-shirt that proclaimed Roman was a member of the debate team. Roman wasn’t, but it fit him alright, so he decided such a lie was a small sacrifice to make.

After another moment of guilt, Roman pulled a nearby hoodie over his head. Cozy. He could take it off before he left--although he couldn’t quite take off the _shirt_ , could he? Was Logan alright with losing a shirt? Did he have a particular attachment to the debate team?

Roman checked the clock. It had already been half an hour. Logan wouldn’t be back for a whole hour--he’d given Roman ample time to leave.

Roman sat down in the desk chair. He tried not to look at the papers strewn across, but curiosity got the better of him. They were mostly class notes. Logan wrote his notes in a cramped handwriting with occasional illustrations. Roman saw some doodles in the margins, mostly squares and circles. He reached towards one of the pages to try and read the heading, but a spasm of guilt made him turn in the chair and put his back to the desk entirely. It wasn’t right for him to snoop like that. Not after Logan had been so nice.

Still, there were things he couldn’t avoid seeing. Several boxes by the door, some labeled with _clothes_ , others with _books_. The posters on the wall--two periodic tables, and several posters of stars. Nebulas and black holes and asteroids. Roman traced the patterns of stars on the ceiling, and wondered why Logan had chosen to put those up first, before he unpacked the rest of his things.

It was so strange to be here. It was so strange to sit in an empty apartment, a stranger’s apartment--not a stranger, his _nemesis_ , his nemesis’ apartment. Roman didn’t belong here. He should leave as quickly as he could, just like Logan recommended.

And then what?

And then go home, with bandages he didn’t know how to untie? Sleep for several hours, stumble through his classes, and go back on patrol tomorrow night? It was what he always did. But even the thought of walking home made Roman ache with tiredness. Even the thought of pretending nothing had _happened--_

_Everything_ had happened.

Logan. Roman hadn’t even said the name out loud yet. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to acknowledge what he’d just been given.

Logan.

Logan was a college student, just about Roman’s age, maybe even in his college. Logan liked astronomy. Logan doodled on his class notes and Logan liked yogurt and Logan enjoyed tidiness. Logan bit his lip when he smiled. Logan pushed up his glasses when he talked, and tapped on his knee when he was nervous, and knew breathing exercises by heart. Logan had a cowlick. Logan had a small nick on his chin. Logan huffed when he laughed.

Logan moonlighted as a supervillain, stole large quantities of cash, could hack into computers, and had fire powers.

That didn’t--it didn’t make _sense_ , in a way that Roman couldn’t fully describe. Not that Logan wasn’t smart or capable enough for that. He was! It was just that--

Logan seemed _nice_.

No, more than nice. He seemed _kind_. He seemed gentle and supportive and a bit snarky. He’d gone out of his way to make Roman comfortable. He’d...he’d _worried_ for Roman, hadn’t he? Roman barely believed it, but Logan had been _worried_ , he’d thought Roman was in trouble--and Roman couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to him like they _cared--_

Logan had friends. Logan had a _life_. Logan had powers that Roman always suspected could do far more than he let them. Logan was in college, going to get a degree, maybe aiming for a job. Logan was just another person. Logan seemed _good_.

And if Roman’s nemesis was _good_ , what did that make Roman?

Roman stood up from the desk chair and walked around the room. Logan kept his shoes by the door in a neat row. Logan had a to-do list on the fridge, held there by a duck magnet. Logan didn’t have any photos in the apartment--none of him, none of his friends, and no family members.

Roman wondered how he’d met his friends. Roman wondered how he’d learned about his powers. Roman wondered how he’d decided to become a villain in the first place.

Great. The moment Logan was gone, Roman finally had coherent questions.

He sighed. It wasn’t worth thinking about this too much. He’d never talk to _Logan_ again--they’d just go back to fighting, as Fahrenheit and the Prince. Or not even that. Maybe Specs wouldn’t show up to their fights anymore, or maybe _Roman_ wouldn’t. He couldn’t even _imagine_ going back to exchanging quips and blows. As if everything was normal.

As if Roman didn’t know Logan’s name.

Maybe if he tried hard enough, he’d forget it.

They could just go back to the way it was. Fighting each other, masks in place, fire and ice flying. Nothing personal, no connection, no nothing. No Logan and no Roman. Just a hero and a villain, like always.

Except it had never been like that.

Except when Roman fell, he’d expected Logan to catch him.

Before everything. Before a name and a face and an apartment. Roman had gotten hurt, and on some level, he’d _wanted_ to find Logan. To fight him, maybe. To see him, sure. But he’d known Logan would never hurt him on purpose.

Panic told him otherwise. Logic told him otherwise. Everything he’d ever learned, since the beginning, since he first went hand-to-hand with someone bigger and stronger and meaner than him, told him that Logan was a threat.

And yet.

And yet he’d always felt that Logan _wasn’t_.

Logan was--

Logan was so many, many things. Logan was smart. Clever. Funny. Capable. Stealthy. Strong. Villainous. Kind. Logan had stepped back when Roman asked. Logan had panicked when Roman started bleeding. Logan had brought him home and patched up his injury and calmed him down.

Logan was a good person.

Roman was--Roman had always been the hero.

He was Logan’s nemesis. That was all. He was everything Logan wasn’t.

A good fighter in open terrain. A bit stupid. Charismatic and good with people--Logan seemed rather antisocial. A dreamer. An artist. And--and a hero, except _not_ , except how could a hero fight a villain if the villain wasn’t _bad--_

Roman curled his arms around his chest, sat on the edge of the bed, and counted the stars stuck to the ceiling.

He could try and forget all this. He could push it down into the place he put all the things he didn’t want to face--his upcoming exams, his brother, the fact that he had no direction in life, his laundry. The flutter in his chest every time Logan smiled.

Roman was good at ignoring things. Roman was good at blocking everything else out and focusing on what he knew. He was a hero. Logan was a villain. That was how it worked.

_I trust you._

Villains didn’t trust their heroes.

What on earth had Roman done to deserve that trust?

He’d trusted Logan, maybe, maybe that was it. Except he hadn’t. He’d wanted to--and for moments, he had, when he was too woozy to think and clinging to whatever kept him upright. But he knew better than to trust Logan. He didn’t really trust _anyone_. Or any situation. It was best to be on his guard.

Logan should be the same, right? On his guard?

He shouldn’t let Roman in like this. It wasn’t safe.

And here Roman was, worrying about whether Logan was safe.

Pathetic.

Roman took a deep, shaky breath. He needed to go. He needed to leave, like Logan said, and this would all be over. Everything would be okay if he just cut his losses and ran.

He reached for the nearest textbook.

He’d leave in a minute.

He’d be a hero later.

For now, Roman curled up on Logan’s bed and opened a book.

\---

Roman didn’t understand ninety-nine percent of Logan’s textbooks. He was able to piece together that a few were about quantum physics, and the rest involved some sort of economic activity, but otherwise they were completely incomprehensible. There was something comforting, though, about picking through words he didn’t understand--it was a nice thing to focus on. He managed to get so wrapped up in trying to deduce the meaning of adiabatic approximation that he almost jumped when the doorknob turned.

Logan blinked at the room before his eyes settled on Roman. Roman almost closed his eyes instinctively, but--well, he’d seen Logan anyway, right? No point in trying to deny that.

For a second, when Logan saw him, Roman almost thought he looked relieved.

“You stayed,” Logan said, walking in and closing the door. He left it open a crack--Roman wondered if he wanted to make it clear there was an exit.

“Obviously.” Roman looked down at his hoodie. “I, um, took you up on your offers. I ate your pretzels. Also, this is your hoodie.”

“I know.” Logan coughed slightly. “You look--good.”

Roman tried not to blush. “Just good?” he teased. “I am a beauty to behold at all times.”

“Well, you certainly look better after a shower.” Logan walked into the kitchen and placed his bag of groceries on the counter. “How is your injury? Any swelling or stiffness?”

“I’ve been right as rain!” Roman grinned. “Tell your friend thanks for the bandages.”

“I will.”

“And, um, thanks to _you_ , as well.” If Roman was honest with himself, that was why he’d stayed. Not questions about Logan’s motivation. Not curiosity over what came next. Just--a chance to say thank you. “This means a lot to me. You went out of your way to do this, and--I appreciate it.”

Logan watched him from the kitchen before smiling. “Sounds like you’re in a better mood.”

“Yeah,” Roman admitted. “I had some time to relax. Sorry for snapping at you.”

“It’s alright.” Logan paused. “And--er, you’re welcome. It was no trouble.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

An awkward silence fell. Roman tried to stand up to help with the groceries, but Logan gave him a pointed look, and Roman sat back down. Logan put the food in the fridge, folded up the bags--he had those reusable bags, because of _course_ he did--and loitered by the counter afterwards. Roman stared at the textbook. Logan didn’t say anything.

“You’re still here,” Logan finally said.

Roman raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, Captain Oblivious, we’ve established that.”

“Why did you stay?”

Roman’s words died in his throat. He searched for a suitable answer, something that would explain why he no longer felt the need to check for weapons.

“I was curious,” Roman finally said.

Logan’s hand flitted from his side, to the counter, then back to his chest. “About what?”

“You.”

Logan looked over at Roman again. Roman looked away.

“I was reading your textbook,” Roman said slowly. “I hope you don’t mind--I don’t understand any of it. You’re really smart.”

“Hardly,” Logan said, although he seemed to warm at the compliment. “I’ve just studied hard.”

“What college do you go to?” Roman asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“I go to college here too.” Roman shrugged. “I--wondered if we were in the same school.”

Logan hummed. “We most likely are. I don’t suppose we would have crossed paths.”

“Yeah, I’m studying acting.” Roman laughed. “I don’t associate with quantum physics nerds.”

“Acting?”

Roman swallowed the instinctive shame. “Yeah. I needed a major, and I always liked drama club, I--it’s kind of stupid.”

“A theater kid,” Logan mused. “Why am I not surprised.”

“Hey!”

“Still, that’s not stupid.” Logan hesitantly walked into the room and sat at the foot of the desk, kicking off his shoes and leaning back against the wall. He had rather long arms and legs, Roman noticed--very lithe when he was sneaking around, but more uncoordinated when he had to fold them all into a small space. They poked out at odd angles and looked a bit cramped around the knees. Roman found it endearing. He was beginning to suspect that he would find _anything_ endearing if Logan did it. At this rate, Logan could blow up a bank and Roman would just admire the flair.

“If you’re passionate about it, it’s a good plan.” Roman had to remind himself of what Logan was talking about. “Besides, you have plenty of time to figure things out--and you seem to be honing many skills on the side.”

Roman opened his hand and filled it with his snowflakes. Real snowflakes were all different. His were all alike, because it was quicker and eaasier, because he had never been the type to make things beautiful. It was beautiful if it got the job done. “You could say that, yeah.”

“You could probably make a career out of that.” Logan’s voice was carefully light. “Ice sculptures are a thing, correct? Or something similar, working in cold weather--”

“And flaunt my powers to the masses?” Roman scoffed. “My secret identity would be gone in a flash.”

“Well, you might not be a hero forever.”

Roman didn’t like that sentence one bit. He’d always planned to be a superhero until he, well, died. How dare Logan insinuate that he would _quit!_ And for what--ice sculptures?

“You could do the same,” Roman decided to say, deflecting back onto Logan. “Instead of villainy. Work in a--coal mine? Do those involve fire?”

Logan snickered. “No.”

“Darn.” Roman folded his arms. “But still, my point stands! You could find a career path that isn’t villainous, I’m sure.”

“I already have a day job,” Logan said, sounding as though he’d rather not admit it. “I work in retail.”

“ _Oh_.” Roman nodded. “That’s why you’re a villain, isn’t it? I get it now.”

“Well, yes, it certainly didn’t help.”

Roman gave him a sympathetic look. Retail was the worst. It was third on Roman’s list of common villainy causes, below ‘death of a family member’ and ‘boredom.’

Roman did his best to avoid death, boredom, and retail as part of his ongoing attempt to avoid villainy in general. He had almost entirely succeeded, save for a brief moment during a soporific lecture where he’d considered blowing up the campus in order to escape. Fortunately, he’d managed to pull himself from the edge of the cliff of evil. Evil was a slippery slope. One second you were keeping library books past their due date, the next you were destroying orphanages. Roman had to be vigilant.

It was sad, sometimes, how easier it seemed to be the bad guy.

“You don’t have to be a villain if I don’t have to be a hero.” Roman wasn’t sure if that added up, but it felt right to say. “Neither of us are obligated to do anything.”

Logan raised one eyebrow. “You told me you did have an obligation.”

“I did?” Roman’s stomach sunk. “Well. Yeah, I guess I do. Scratch that. _You’re_ the only one who doesn’t have an obligation.”

“Don’t assume.”

“I’ll try not to.” Roman swallowed. “I don’t suppose you would tell me your entire life story, just to satiate my curiosity?”

Logan looked almost amused. “Take me out for dinner first.”

“Yeah, um--I didn’t expect you to. It wasn’t nice of me to ask.”

“Curiosity.” Logan shrugged. “You already know too much about me, I’d stick with what you have. Nothing else would do you any good.”

“Disagree,” Roman mumbled, and apparently not quietly enough, since Logan gave him a sharp look.

“I’d like context,” was what Roman decided to say after a few seconds. “It could help me--understand all this better.”

Logan nodded a bit.

“And you’re not obligated to answer anything,” Roman said. “It--it would just be a nice thing to do.” He curled into himself a bit, feet scuffing at the floor. “Is that okay?”

Logan was silent for a second. “I suppose it depends on the questions.”

“It really isn’t fair,” Roman said weakly. Maybe if he convinced himself it wasn’t the right thing to do, the itch would fade. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t want to just lay everything out on the table,” Logan said. “Stranger dangers.”

“We’re hardly strangers.”

“Fair.”

Roman paused. “How about--any question you answer, so do I? That way we’re both baring our souls.”

Logan snickered. “How noble of you.”

“Thank you!” Roman tilted his head. “Does that work?”

“Sure. Fine.” Logan raised a finger. “I will refuse any question that I’d rather not answer, alright?”

“Works for me.” Roman kicked his feet against the floor and worried the blanket between his fingers. “So. Um. You have...fire powers?”

Logan stared at him with shame and disappointment. “You _know_ that. You could have picked _any question--_ ”

“I needed an icebreaker!” Roman paused. “Ha, get it?”

“Ugh.” Logan rolled his eyes. Then he extended a hand. Fire flickered across his palm and lit up his face, casting his eyes into shadow. Roman watched it for a second. It looked strange in the apartment, the light and darkness flickering oddly, Logan’s hand too close to avoid getting burned. But Logan rolled it around his palm casually, closed his fingers over it, and the fire vanished. Logan’s fire never left much smoke. “Yes, I can summon fire. For some reason you needed clarification.”

“Shut up,” Roman complained. He’d wanted to see if Logan even _could_ summon fire--it felt wrong to imagine that intersection of worlds. But no. Logan lit fires as easily as he did during fights. And the more Roman rolled the idea around in his head, like Logan’s fire in his palm, the more it settled. Logan could summon fire. That made sense. That was right.

“Next question?” Logan asked.

“I’m supposed to answer first.”

“I know the answer to _can you summon fire, Princey?”_

“Fine.” Roman huffed. “Um...when’s your birthday?”

“What is this, registering for a social media account?”

“Fine!” Roman leaned back a bit and stared at the ceiling again. “Um...when did you become a villain?”

Logan was quiet for a second, and Roman wondered if he’d skip the question. “A bit before college started.”

“You were what, seventeen?”

“Eighteen.”

Roman nodded. Okay, a recent development. It hadn’t been some sort of endless crusade against the man. That _also_ made sense. And since Logan had only showed up in fights several months back, it matched the timeline.

Roman wondered why Logan had chosen to fight him in the first place.

“What about you?” Logan asked. “I assume you’re alright with answering--”

“Yeah, yeah, I am.” Roman shrugged. “I think I was fifteen?”

Logan gave him a similar look to when he’d talked about falling off the bridge. “ _What?”_

“What?”

_“Fifteen?”_

“Yes?”

“You couldn’t even _drive!”_

“I, um, biked to a lot of fights.” Roman shrugged sheepishly. “Or took the subway.”

Logan blinked at him a few times. “Is there any way to belatedly call child protective services?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Shit, it was worth a shot.”

“Next question,” Roman said. He was laughing a bit. He didn’t know why. “Your favorite Disney movie.”

Logan looked confused again, but a less frantic kind of confused. “What?”

“I’m doing the important questions first!” Roman placed a hand on his chest. “Mine is Sleeping Beauty, obviously. Or Cinderella. Or Snow White. Or--”

“You can’t decide.”

“I can’t!” Roman sighed dramatically. “They’re all my darling babies.”

“I’m not such a fan of Disney,” Logan began, and ignored Roman’s offended gasp. “I suppose I’d say my favorite is Big Hero Six.”

“Fine,” Roman said, resisting the urge to condemn him for his slander of Disney. “Fine. You pass, I guess.”

Logan huffed. “Is this a test?”

“Yes, it was!” Roman nodded. “Now. Favorite _Pixar_ movie?”

“I refuse to answer that,” Logan said. “It is three in the morning. I am not going to talk with you about movies.”

“Hey!” Roman complained. “I’m not that tired!”

“Speak for yourself.” Logan rubbed at his eyes, and Roman realized he did look tired. Maybe he didn’t regularly stay up as late as Roman did. “This isn’t good for my circadian rhythm.”

“Your circus rhythm is a coward,” Roman said. “But...yeah, you can sleep or whatever. I’ll wrap up with the questions.”

“Thank you,” Logan said. He sounded like he meant it. Roman felt a flash of guilt for keeping him up so late. “So?”

“So.” Roman tried to think of the most important question he had. It wasn’t hard. He’d been dancing around it ever since Logan returned--focusing on the banter, the ease with which they interacted, pretending once again that nothing had changed.

“What do you want from me?”

Logan’s eyes widened. “What?”

“I’ve been trying to figure it out,” Roman said, the words tumbling out. “Because I want to believe that you’re just--doing this out of the goodness of your heart, or something, and maybe you are! But I can’t trust that, you’re my _nemesis_ , and I know your _name!_ You can’t be _okay_ with this, there’s got to be something you can get out of it--” Roman splayed his hands on his knees. “And I’m not judging! I get it. I’d--I’d just like to know what you want.”

“What I want?” Logan echoed.

Roman nodded, staring at his hands. He braced himself for whatever might come next--a threat, a promise, a trade--

“I--” Logan sounded lost. Desperate. As if his own fire was burning him up. “I want you to be _alive_.”

Roman jerked his head up.

“I want you to be okay,” Logan continued. It seemed to be his turn to ramble. “I want you to fight without getting hurt, or not fight at all. I want you to be a hero since you’re clearly so passionate about it, and I want you to _stop_ if it’s hurting you. I want to see you and know you’re alright, I--”

Roman stared at him. Logan couldn’t be lying. Roman knew him too well. Except maybe he didn’t--except he did. He _did_ know Logan. And he trusted that.

“I wanted to help,” Logan finished, his voice thin. “I would have helped anyone who was that hurt, but _especially_ you.”

“Especially me?” Roman repeated, and Logan’s arms tightened around his knees.

“You thought--” Logan swallowed. “You thought I would fight you while you were _bleeding_. You thought I would--what, _attack_ you? You thought I’d trap you here, you--and now you’re asking what I _want_ , when I’ve just given you basic human decency--”

“Bit more than basic,” Roman said. “I’m wearing your hoodie.”

“Fine, non-basic human decency.” Logan waved a hand. “Acidic human decency.”

Roman smiled despite himself. “You’re proud of that one, aren’t you?”

“Extremely.” Logan sighed. “You’ve been so _scared_ , ever since you started bleeding. Scared of _me_. And--and I don’t know what I can do to convince you I don’t mean you harm, but I want to try. I want you to _never_ have to worry about being hurt again.” Logan curled into himself a bit. “And I know you hate me, I understand that. I’d just--I’d like you to know I’m not a completely terrible person. I don’t want you to be scared of me.”

“I’m scared of everyone,” Roman said thickly. It was the first thing that came to mind. “It’s nothing personal.”

Logan did uncurl a bit. “Everyone?”

“It’s best to be on your guard,” Roman said. Then he paused and took a leap. “Um. For what it’s worth, though, you’re like the least likely villain to kill me. I am ninety percent sure I’m not about to be murdered, and for me, that’s a large number.”

“Ah,” Logan said hesitantly. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome!” Roman gave him a thumbs up. “You’re...cool, Specs. We’re cool.”

Logan slowly returned the thumbs up. It was the cutest thing ever.

_I don’t want you to be scared of me._

“I don’t want you to be scared _for_ me,” Roman said. “For whatever that’s worth. You don’t need to worry about me, I can handle myself. Tonight was a fluke.”

“It was,” Logan agreed. “But it shouldn’t have happened, period.”

“Well, what do you want _me_ to do about it?” Roman waved a hand. “It clearly happened. Don’t see how we can turn back time.”

Logan hummed.

“Um, thanks,” Roman added. He felt he should say something. “For being honest. I didn’t really expect--that.”

“Nor did I.” Logan rubbed his eyes again. “I am exhausted in several different ways and my filter is down the figurative garbage chute.”

Roman nodded. “Um--so do I _also_ answer the question? Those were our rules.”

“You don’t have to,” Logan said quickly.

“Well, do you want me to?”

Logan paused. “Alright. What do you want from _me?_ Why did you stay?”

“Two questions for the price of one,” Roman joked as he tried to think of a real response. “Cheater.”

Logan hummed again. He definitely seemed tired. Roman figured he had an edge in a fight now, and immediately hated himself for thinking that.

“I...I was curious,” Roman said. Hopefully, if he started talking, he’d find an answer in the middle somewhere. “You were definitely acting weird, and I figured I didn’t want to steal your sweatshirt. I lost track of time, I thought it might be a trap--” No, no, none of those. All of them, but none of them. “I didn’t--”

“You don’t have to answer,” Logan said.

“I don’t really have one,” Roman admitted. “I just--”

He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to forget everything. He didn’t want to lose Logan’s name on his lips and the memory of Logan’s smile. He didn’t want to stumble back to his room and barely keep himself from bleeding out.

“It’s safe here,” Roman finally said, as quietly as he could. “I don’t want it to end yet.”

Logan looked about to say something. Then he didn’t. He just nodded a bit and watched Roman like _Roman_ was the enigma, like Logan wanted to hack into his code and see what he knew.

Logan didn’t even know Roman’s name.

“What do we do now?” Roman asked.

Logan looked around the room, then back at Roman. “I don’t know.”

“You’re tired,” Roman said. Best to focus on the small steps. “You should sleep.”

“So should you.” Logan unfolded himself and stood up, joint by joint, cracking his back and giving Roman a weary smile. “It’s been a long night.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I just did.”

Roman snickered. “No, I--whatever. We’ll both get some sleep?”

“Sure.” Logan grabbed a blanket off the floor and tossed it to Roman. “You can sleep in those clothes if that works for you--make sure not to put pressure on the bandages while you sleep, alright? If you need anything, call for me.”

“What about you?”

“Hmm?”

“Where will you sleep?” Roman motioned to the bed. “I’m hogging it.”

“I believe I have a sleeping bag somewhere.” Logan paused. “Also, it wouldn’t hurt to tackle some of my studies before I go to bed. Don’t worry about me.”

Roman frowned. “Aren’t you tired?”

“You were injured, you take priority.” Logan sat in front of his desk and pulled out a notebook and pencil. “Get some rest.”

Roman let out a long breath and slipped into the bed. When he’d managed to flatten the pillow into something nice, Logan’s pencil scratches had settled into a rhythm. Roman ran a hand down his arm and goosebumps followed. The blankets hadn’t gotten nice and warm yet. They were still stiff and cold. Roman was stiff and cold and he hadn’t realized how cold he’d gotten while they talked.

He also hadn’t realized how tired he was. The moment he was horizontal, he almost blacked out. It took all his willpower to keep his eyes open. He watched Logan scribbling in his notebook, a book open on his lap, his profile edged in gold from the lamp. Logan glanced at Roman and Roman closed his eyes quickly.

When Roman opened them again, he didn’t know how long it had been. The lamp was out. He was somehow even colder, and Logan was moving around, the floorboards creaking under his feet.

“Shut,” Roman mumbled.

Logan stilled. “Is everything alright?”

“Stop movin’.” Roman rubbed at his eyes. “Aren’t you gonna sleep?”

“Soon,” Logan said.

“Do it now.” Roman tried to glare at him. “You’re stomping around and I can’t sleep.”

“Apologies.” Logan looked around. “I--I suppose I should sleep. I’ll get some blankets for myself, wait a moment--”

He walked past Roman and his hand brushed Roman’s arm. Maybe it was Logan’s fire that made the touch burn.

“You can’t just sleep on the _floor_ ,” Roman complained.

“Where else can I sleep?” Logan pointed out.

“I’ll--” Roman tried to sit up. The bandages stopped him halfway, and the cold air hit him hard. “I can sleep on the floor, I can--”

“No!” Logan opened a small closet and pulled out a pillow. “You’re injured.”

“It’s not even that bad,” Roman said. He moved his arms and legs back and forth. “See?”

“No.”

“Please?” Roman sighed. “You shouldn’t be sleeping on the _floor_. You should--”

Logan looked at him as if waiting for an idea. Roman had only one--a sleep-deprived, desperate, ridiculous idea.

“You’ll keep waking up,” Roman said slowly. “And I can’t sleep with you walking around.”

Logan kept watching him.

“And I’m cold,” Roman added. He shivered without even meaning to. “It’s cold.”

“It isn’t that cold,” Logan said. “I thought the cold didn’t bother you anyway.”

Roman gasped. “Frozen reference?”

“Never.”

“I get cold easily, actually.” Roman rubbed at his arms. “And, well, I did--fall into a cold river. So.”

“You could still be a bit chilled,” Logan agreed.

Roman nodded.

“I can turn up the heat?” Logan suggested. “Give me a moment--”

“Hold my hand.”

Logan stared at him. “Pardon?”

Roman flushed. “Um--I meant just for a second. I want to see something.”

For a moment, Roman wondered if Logan would just stay frozen forever. Finally, Logan extended his hand. Roman waited, but it stayed there, hovering inches from his chest.

Roman took it. Logan’s hand was burning warm, and Roman swore he felt ice slough from his fingers, sliding in molten drops to the center of his chest.

“You _are_ cold,” Logan said, his other hand covering Roman’s hand as well. It was almost enough to make Roman pull away. “I usually run hot, but you’re practically _freezing_.”

Roman wished he could close his eyes and fall asleep like that. Even one warm hand was more than enough. He blinked away his tiredness and the urge to just pull Logan _closer-_ -and he tried to remind himself why he should just let go. Hero. Villain. All that stuff.

“I can get you more blankets.” Logan didn’t pull his hand away either. “I wish I had a heater of some sort--”

“You _do_ ,” Roman pointed out. “You’re like a living space heater, Specs.”

“I can’t warm you up while you sleep,” Logan said.

“You lack imagination.” Roman flopped back onto the bed and shifted towards the wall, leaving a large opening on the bed. “Look, I’m tired. I’m cold. I don’t want you sleeping on the floor or waking me up all night. And why not do something else we regret, to have a little bingo?”

Logan stared at him uncomprehendingly. “You’re asking me to--”

“Be my space heater!” Roman patted the empty half of the bed. “Sleep next to me.”

“We--” Logan looked as though he was calculating the exact dimensions of the bed. His hand slipped from Roman’s, and Roman mourned the warmth. “You want me to--”

“ _Yes_ ,” Roman said with a touch of irritation. “Don’t be weird about it. I’m _cold_.”

Logan stepped forward. Roman stayed very still, as if not to startle him. Slowly, Logan sat on the edge of the bed. He gave Roman a hesitant look. Roman jerked his head to the side and rolled his eyes.

And yes, Roman was tired. Yes, Roman was cold. But he had to admit his relief went deeper than that, when Logan finally slipped under the blankets and curled up across from him.

Logan was tense. Despite the bed’s smallness, he’d somehow managed to keep several inches between them. Roman ached to reach out a hand and pull him closer--and where had _that_ come from, or had it always been there, the urge to tug him by the hand--and fight him. Always fight him. Closer and closer until their noses brushed.

Roman could make out the profile of Logan’s nose, the way it dipped into his mouth, and the ridge above his eyes. Logan was watching the ceiling. Maybe he was counting the stars.

“You don’t have to do this,” Roman murmured. “If you’re uncomfortable, you don’t have to. I just thought--”

“I don’t know what _this_ is,” Logan said, turning a bit, glancing at Roman. “I don’t want to overstep, so--”

“Look, it’s really not that hard.” Roman motioned at him. “Turn over, face me.”

Logan did so. With the light dim behind him, Roman could barely make out his face.

“Now--” Roman leaned forward and tossed an arm over Logan’s waist. “You become my personal heater, fire boy.”

“Fire boy?” Logan repeated.

“‘M tired, I’m no good at nicknames.”

“Just call me Logan,” Logan said. “It _is_ my name.”

Roman swallowed. That didn’t seem right. Instead of answering, he pulled Logan as close as he dared. An arm wrapped around Roman’s shoulders and he sighed as the warmth started to thaw the blankets. Logan’s hair was mussed. He carefully took off his glasses and blinked at Roman with dark eyes.

“Can you even see?” Roman teased, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I can!” Logan huffed. Roman took his irritation as a chance to worm a bit closer. He felt like the coldness in his skin was retreating into his bones, then through his blood, crystalizing somewhere in his chest. Warm on the outside--so warm, so safe--but cold in the very, very center. Logan cupped his shoulders and Roman squeezed another arm around Logan. He could probably tuck himself right under Logan’s chin, if he wanted. But he kept himself where he was, face to face with Logan on the pillow, already yawning.

“Go to sleep,” Logan said softly. “You’re tired.”

“You won’t leave, will you?” Roman tried for a glare. “If you do, I’ll fight you.”

“I’d win.”

“You would not.” Roman stuck out his tongue. “Shut up.”

“Mm.” Logan pulled Roman just a bit closer. Maybe he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “But no, I won’t leave. We both need sleep. It would be a shame to let a night go to waste.”

Roman hummed sleepily. His vision was blurry. He could just make out the line of Logan’s nose and the crook of his smile.

That smile widened and grew sheepish as Logan laughed a bit. “This is so strange. Are you sure--”

“Yep.” Roman was definitely sure. If he lost the warmth of Logan’s arms around him, he might actually freeze to death, sink into the river and disappear. “Like I said. It’s been a weird night. We can pretend none of this happened.”

“That’ll be hard,” Logan said, “when we’re going to wake up next to each other.”

“We pretend after I’ve left your apartment, obviously.” Roman huffed. “I have class regardless. I’ll be out of your hair, and then we both forget about this. This didn’t happen. It is not currently happening.”

“Are you going to stop doing it now, then?”

“No.” Roman shook his head. “You misunderstand. We get everything out of our system now, then tomorrow, we forget all of it.”

Logan snickered a bit. “We just fight each other as usual?”

“Yeah!” Roman grinned. “I don’t know your name or anything like that. Who are you? I don’t know!”

“But you _do_ ,” Logan said. “You know who I am. Things have--changed.”

“They don’t have to!” Roman protested. “ _Nothing_ has to change!”

“Don’t you _want_ it to?”

Roman paused. Logan swallowed and looked away.

“Do _you?”_ Roman whispered.

Logan didn’t answer.

Roman stared at him. What would that even look like? He’d assumed they’d forget about this entirely, maybe avoid each other--he’d assumed there were no consequences for tonight. Now, even close to Logan, he felt cold. Almost cold enough to pull away.

“You realize how much we’d have to--” Roman’s voice broke off. “You realize--everything we’ve done tonight--”

“It certainly was a lot,” Logan admitted. “But that’s the thing--I can’t _forget_ that. I’m not about to forget you, Princey, for better or for worse.”

Roman sighed. “Yeah. You’re Lo--your name--in my head already. Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” Logan bit his lip. “Admittedly, we can’t change _everything_.”

“Yeah.” Roman began to worry a few small circles in Logan’s back. He didn’t know why. Well, he did, but he wasn’t keen on admitting it. “I’m still a hero. You’re still a villain. I still hate you.”

“I really hate you,” Logan said.

“So we can’t change too much.” Roman thought about it. “We do have to pretend this never happened.”

“So we’re back to square one.” Logan sighed. “Wonderful.”

“But only to other people,” Roman said. “Not to each other. _We_ can still know!”

“Know what?” Logan asked, in a teasing way.

“That you’re a nerd who likes stars, obviously.” Roman smiled. “And that we go to the same college. And that you’re incredibly straightlaced and dull.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Logan said. “And you, um, want to be an actor.”

“Yeah, see?” Roman smiled wider. “We know all that stuff. But nobody else has to!”

Logan huffed. “I don’t see how that’s a solution. It’s obviously going to affect things.”

“What, do you see other people on the roof with us during fights?” Roman asked. “It’s always been just you and me when it counts. Nobody’s looking too closely.”

Logan was quiet for a moment. Thinking through his words, Roman was sure. It was admirable how Logan always knew exactly what to say--but sometimes, he needed someone like Roman to break the silence. To say anything, especially something reckless or stupid, and get the fight moving.

It wasn’t a fight.

It was always a fight. It was always a hero and a villain. But it was always--it had never been about who _won_. They were evenly matched. They challenged each other just to see what would happen. Nothing was at stake but each other.

Roman had almost died seventeen times. Not a single one had been because of Logan.

“I know your name,” Roman said. “Why did you tell me?”

Logan didn’t look surprised by the change of subject. “Why not?”

“You don’t know _mine_ ,” Roman continued. “It isn’t fair. I’m trying not to use it, but--but it isn’t fair.”

“I don’t see what fair has to do with it,” Logan said. “I chose to share it, that’s all. And you can use it as much as you want.”

Roman swallowed a lump in his throat. “I don’t want to get in the habit of saying it. That’d ruin the whole facade if I called you--your name--during a fight. Or to a friend, or to _anyone_. I need to keep quiet about it.”

“It’s just you and me right now,” Logan pointed out.

“I don’t want to if you don’t know mine.” Roman pressed his lips together. “It isn’t fair.”

Logan opened his mouth to say something. Roman decided he was tired enough, warm enough, and desperate enough to interrupt him.

Not a heroic move. But Roman didn’t have to be a hero yet. It was just him and Logan.

“My name’s Roman,” Roman blurted out. “Roman.”

Logan stilled. “You don’t have to--”

“I wanted to.” Roman steeled himself and closed his eyes. “Logan.”

A small intake of breath, and then a hand brushed hair from his forehead.

Roman opened one eye. “Was that--”

“Okay,” Logan said. “It was okay.”

“Good.” Roman opened his other eye. He could barely see anything, but he could feel Logan’s heartbeat. “Logan.”

Logan made a small squeaking noise.

“Logan,” Roman said, rolling it around in his mouth. “Lo-gan. Logan!”

“Stop,” Logan complained, sounding rather flustered. Roman grinned.

“Logan,” Roman said in a sing-song voice. “Loga--”

“Roman,” Logan said. Firmly. And softly, somehow, like it meant just as much to say Roman’s name as it had meant for Roman to say Logan’s.

“That’s me,” Roman joked, trying to hide the euphoria bubbling in his voice.

“Roman,” Logan repeated. A perfect mix of teasing and chiding and _kind_.

“Good, you’ve got it down.” Roman nodded. “Now never say it to anyone ever.”

“Right.” Logan groaned. “Ugh, it’s already stuck in my head. How do I even stop myself?”

“I gotta shut you up whenever you try.” Roman reached out and covered Logan’s mouth with his hand. “There. You’re all shut up.”

Logan snickered, his breath warm on Roman’s hand.

“You say it quiet,” Roman said, removing the hand, “if you’ve gotta. Say it super quiet so we’re the only ones who can hear.”

“You’re tired, aren’t you?”

“Loopy,” Roman agreed.

“I figured.” Logan sounded fond. “You do always get loopy towards the ends of fights. It’s predictable.”

“I do not!” Roman protested.

“You absolutely do. Without fail.”

“Hmph.” Roman pouted. “Now I _have_ to kick your ass on our next fight.”

“Too bad,” Logan said. “I suppose you’ll be disappointed yet again.”

“Hey!”

Logan laughed. Roman swatted at his face and pouted harder.

“Get some sleep,” Logan finally said between chuckles. “Come on. Enough distracting me, Roman.”

Roman’s stomach swooped at hearing his name in Logan’s voice. He hid it with a laugh. “You fear me that much?”

“You’re so sleep-deprived, you could do something you regret.” Logan pulled Roman a bit closer. “Sleep. Please.”

“Mm.” Roman nodded. “Do you have anythin’ to do before we do?”

“What?”

“Well, we’ll be going back to normal tomorrow.” Roman scooted closer. “So do you wanna do anything you’ll regret? To join the party?”

“I don’t have anything that I would _regret_ ,” Logan said.

“Then something you probably _should_ regret.”

Logan was silent for a second. “I don’t have anything like that.”

“Hmph, boring.” Roman looked up at him. “C’mon, Logan, let yourself live. Change the game or whatever. You can’t let me beat you at embarrassing emotional displays.”

Logan brushed another lock of hair out of Roman’s eyes. “You’re tired.”

“Yeah, and so are you! The perfect excuse for anything you decide to do.”

“You know,” Logan said, a teasing lilt to his voice, “the more you say that, the more I think you _want_ me to do something.”

Roman smiled. “Depends on the thing.”

“I suppose it does.” Logan’s smile faded a bit. “I mean, there’s definitely _something_ , but I would never want to--”

Roman raised his eyebrows. “Oh really?”

Logan coughed awkwardly and looked away. “Nothing of importance, of course.”

“Oh really.”

“It’s not--” Logan looked like he was struggling with his words. “We fight a lot.”

“Um, yep, that’s been established.” Roman nodded. “And?”

“And I can’t say I haven’t--” Logan groaned and covered his face with one hand. “This is ridiculous. I’m too tired to make good decisions.”

“You’re a villain, right? None of your decisions are good.”

“I hate this.” Logan’s voice was muffled. “I hate you. I hate you making me care about you by being very sweet and funny and getting hurt--and being _cold_ , so I have to be _inches_ from you, and--and now I know your name, Roman, _Roman_ \--Roman, I _hate_ this, you’re completely infuriating--”

“I’m your nemesis,” Roman whispered. “That’s what I do.”

“You’ve succeeded!” Logan sighed. “And there’s--there’s so much I want to say. There’s so much I want to _do_. And I can barely stop myself from--blurting out your name to whoever I meet.”

Roman stared at him, mouth half open. “Anything else?”

Logan was quiet for a long, long moment. “There are things I’ve wanted to do for a while.”

“Oh,” Roman said. And maybe he was misinterpreting, but he had the confidence of sleep-deprivation and _knowing_ Logan, knowing him inside and out.

“It’s stupid,” Logan said.

“It’s not.”

Logan pulled away, just a bit, and the warmth lessened.

“No, hey!” Roman summoned his courage. “I can do something about the name issue. Can I show you?”

“Sure,” Logan said, slowly.

“Great.” Roman pulled Logan’s arm away from his face. “I’ll make sure every time you say my name, or I say yours, we keep it quiet. You know how?”

Logan shook his head.

“Can I--” Roman swallowed. “Can I show you?”

Logan nodded.

“Say my name, okay?”

Logan hesitated. And Roman should ask again. He should explain. He should make sure Logan knew what was happening--but of course he did. He was smart. He always knew exactly what he was saying and what Roman was going to do. He could think circles around Roman sometimes, but he always slowed down to let Roman have fun, to make it an even fight.

Logan knew what Roman was asking.

And Logan’s lips parted.

“Ro--”

Roman closed the distance before Logan could finish. Logan’s voice died on his lips and faded on Roman’s own. And it was silent, save for the rustle of blankets and Logan’s hum as he pulled Roman closer and kissed him back.

Huh.

Okay.

_Shit_ , okay, Roman hadn’t kissed anyone in _years_ , did he even remember how to--was he--fuck, okay, sure--sure, this worked, this tracked, he totally knew what he was doing--

Logan slipped a hand under his chin and guided Roman closer. Roman’s eyes closed despite himself. He knew this. Don’t worry about everything else. Focus on what he knew.

Logan’s hand was warm against his skin. Logan’s lips were even warmer. Roman was sure he’d catch fire and melt away, or he’d freeze Logan in return, leave them as a statue with arms entwined.

Logan hummed against Roman’s lips, and Roman buried a hand in Logan’s hair before he could stop himself. It was soft. It made Logan press closer into him, their shoulders pressed together, and this was probably definitely a mistake--but Roman had wanted this, for longer than he’d admitted, he’d always wanted to see where a fight could lead, see what would happen if Logan pressed him to the wall and didn’t let go--

They broke apart by mutual agreement, foreheads pressed together, Logan’s breath light against Roman’s lips.

“Huh,” Roman managed to say.

“Okay,” Logan agreed.

Roman snickered. Logan huffed. His hand still rested on Roman’s cheek, cradling it, like Roman was something precious.

“So you’ll just--” Logan’s voice faded for a second. “Do that? Every time I say your name?”

“If you’d like.” Roman smiled. “Keep each other on our toes.”

“That would make for an interesting fight.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?”

Roman was tired. Roman was warm. Roman was safe, safer than he’d ever been.

“You always want to change the game,” Roman said, “so here. We’ll change it. Just enough to make it more of a challenge.”

Logan laughed a bit. “This is such a terrible idea. We don’t even know--”

“We’ll figure it out.” Roman hummed. “You’re smart.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s the truth.” Roman’s voice grew quieter as his eyes slipped closed again. “We’ll be okay. Alright?”

“We will be,” Logan agreed, his voice distant. Roman was already slipping away, surrounded by warmth. “You’ll be okay. We’ll figure things out tomorrow.”

Yeah. He’d be a hero tomorrow. He’d see if he wanted to be a hero. Tomorrow.

Right now, he needed to sleep.

Right now, he was just Logan’s nemesis. Just Roman.

Just Roman and Logan. And maybe it always had been.

“Goodnight,” Roman mumbled.

“It’s morning, actually.” Logan was smiling. Roman could hear it. He had a lovely smile--Roman was glad he’d get to see it more now. “But good morning to you.”

Roman smiled back.

And he fell asleep, and Logan fell with him. They’d catch themselves and figure it out at the bottom. For now, they’d enjoy the ride.

It was a risk. It was an adventure. It was a fight Roman wouldn’t always win. But it was less scary with someone else there. Roman was afraid of a lot of things, but Logan had never been one of them.

Logan was just Logan. Roman trusted him.

And maybe Logan trusted Roman, too.

And maybe that was enough for now.


End file.
